


The Rabbit Revealed

by PreciselyVex (CrashEdit)



Series: RabbitVerse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (Yes - A Little Bit of Story With This Porn!), Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Aural Voyeurism, BDSM, Belts, Bisexuality, Biting, Blindfolds, Booty Calls, Breathplay, Choking, Cock Slapping, Cunnilingus, Discipline, Dom!Sherlock, F/M, Face Slapping, Fingerfucking, First Time, Frottage, Gunplay, Guyliner, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Interrogation, Johnlock Roulette, Knifeplay, Lapdance, Let's Write Sherlock - Challenge 1, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Murder, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pants, Prostate Massage, Public Sex, Rape Fantasy, Reference to Temperature Play, References to Alcohol, References to Drugs, References to Oral Sex, References to Power Exchange, References to Sex in Public, References to Sex in a Car, Restraints, Riding Crops, Rimming, Senseplay, Smut, Spanking, Stranger Sex, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Sub!John, Teenlock, Threesome - MMM, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Vibrators, Violence, flogger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 13:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 146,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrashEdit/pseuds/PreciselyVex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious stranger appears at a crime site and Sherlock is undone -- dirty little secrets are exposed and new ones are made in this slashy, porny fic (with a little bit of actual story as well, quite a shock)!</p><p>Written for Let's Write Sherlock, Challenge #1:<br/>"After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…"</p><p>**Not Beta'd, Not Britpick'd** (except Ch. 9, which was made all the better by <a href="http://scribblywobblytimeylimey.tumblr.com/">scribblywobblytimeylimey</a>, thanks, doll!) </p><p> </p><p>I'm so honored! The inimitable <a href="http://sketchybadger.tumblr.com/">Sketchybadger</a> drew <a href="http://i.imgur.com/jphEud8.jpg">an illustration</a><a></a> for this fic (with close-ups <a href="http://i.imgur.com/fRibbuR.jpg">here</a><a></a>, and <a href="http://i.imgur.com/hDoOHOE.jpg">here</a>) and it kicks ass! </p><p>You guys are spoiling me! <a href="http://i.imgur.com/FcwnIVU.jpg">More "Rabbit"-inspired art</a>, this time from <a href="http://some-cool-name.tumblr.com/">some-cool-name</a>! Pretty amazing work, don't you think?</p><p> <br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Hello, Sherlock"

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [La Liebre Revelada](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2125176) by [galaxycolors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxycolors/pseuds/galaxycolors)



>   
> _MUSIC NOTES_  
>  The Three-Song Playlist I listened to, on a loop, while writing "The Rabbit Revealed":
> 
> ["Juno"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Tc0IP39-Do) by Tokyo Police Club  
> ["I've Got Friends"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9ZGN_eAEbA) by Manchester Orchestra  
> ["Basic Space"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHZVGqqf3gg) by The XX

“Cheap hotel + victim registered under an assumed name + visible tan line on empty ring finger = one dead adulterer, “ intoned Sherlock, not even trying to hide his boredom. “Crime of passion, even Anderson can see that. Tedious. Why’d you call us?”

They were standing just down the hall from where the shooting had taken place. Lestrade shook his head. “Wasn’t my idea.”

“Well whose was it?” asked John, wrinkling his brow.

“It was mine.” All heads turned at the sound of the voice, and the air went out of the room – well, for Sherlock, at least. It was an American voice, belonging to a tall, strongly built man, with dark blonde hair and a confident, capable air that dominated the room.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he said, with a sly grin.

There was a barely perceptible pause before Sherlock responded – a millisecond of pleasant surprise tinged with fear that he quickly buttoned up before anyone but John noticed. He smiled automatically, brain finally locking into the proper response:

“Victor Trevor. It’s been quite a while.” 

 

 

*****

 

He’d been the primary witness to the hotel shooting, but according to Lestrade, Victor Trevor had insisted on giving his testimony in the presence of one person and one person only, and that person was the world’s only consulting detective.

“Sherlock and I are old friends.” Victor explained. “We went to University together.”

“Not precisely together,” Sherlock corrected, “Victor was a graduate student. I was an undergrad. Vastly different courses of study.”

John eyed him curiously, hearing the slight acidic edge to his inflection.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Well, let’s get started, yeah?”

The small group gathered in an open hotel room across the hall – Victor’s room, it turned out – and Lestrade, John and Sherlock all made themselves comfortable: Lestrade in a chair, taking notes, John leaning against the desk, Sherlock standing by the door. Victor sat comfortably on the bed, leaning back and eyeing the group curiously.

“I know why you’re here,” he pointed to Lestrade, “and obviously, you as well Sherlock,” he said, before turning his amused stare upon John. “But you? I haven’t figured out precisely where you fit in here.”

John flushed red and cleared his throat, uncomfortable under Victor’s scrutiny.

“He’s with me.” Sherlock intervened, in a tone that warned to end this line of conversation.

Victor beamed with delight. “Oh, he’s your partner?”

“I’m his associate, and his, um, blogger.” John found his voice and extended his hand. “John Watson.”

“Dr. Watson, of course. I’ve read your blog – very exciting stuff. That business with the bombs and the counterfeit painting? Terrific…funny how trouble always seems to find you boys.”

Sherlock was not amused. “And today it seems to have found you. Tell us what you saw.”

“I’d been in my room most of the afternoon. Went out to get ice, came back and saw everything.” He’d turned the corner at the exact moment the killer had discharged his gun. The gunman ran, and Victor had called 9-9-9. The sound of the shot had brought others out into the hallway, but he’d been the only witness who’d actually seen the killer, who, based on his description, was easily identified as the victim’s husband.

“Good thing you showed up, Mr. Trevor - without a witness, this could’ve been a nearly disastrous case against the victim’s boyfriend,” Lestrade said. “He’s a bit of a mess right now -- heard shots and locked himself in the bathroom. Took three officers to convince him that the coast was clear.”

“Anyone locked up in your bathroom, Victor?” Sherlock focused sharply on the witness. “Or was it just you in this hotel room tonight?”

“As if I’d tell you and take away all your fun.” Victor smiled, challengingly. “I’m curious, Rabbit: can you still deduce me? Detect a foreign cologne or decipher some irregularity in my walk?”

“Don’t call me Rabbit,” Sherlock snapped, “and don’t be stupid, it’s been far too long since I’ve seen you to make those kinds of deductions. However,” he crossed the room with a smirk, moving close enough to the witness to point out the evidence, “the fresh scratches on your neck and remnants of lubricant under your fingernails tell the tale easily enough. Where is she, by the way?”

“How do you know it’s a she?”

“Scratches of that width come from synthetic nail tips, thinner at the top than actual fingernails. Now, for all I know, you may be courting the trans set these days – but either way, I’m confident that your partner was, in fact, female, either by birth or by intent.”

Victor laughed. “Amazing, Sherlock, you haven’t changed a bit!”

“And you haven’t answered my question.” Sherlock’s mouth had become a hard line. “Where is she?”

“Took off after the murder happened. Wouldn’t you?

“Not at all, I _like_ crime scenes. What’s your excuse for staying?”

“Keep up, Sherlock - I’m the star witness!”

Sherlock sighed, “Fine, Victor, you sewed up the case. Why involve me, then?”

“Oh,” Victor looked from Sherlock to John and then back again, “I’m sorry, did you have something better to do?”

“Boring, Victor,” Sherlock said, with an exaggerated eyeroll, “are we done here?”

Lestrade sighed and flipped his notebook closed. “We’ve got what we need.”

“There you go, “ said Sherlock, moving to the door. “Pleasure to see you again, Victor. Please do me a favor and fuck off now.”

Victor grinned after him. “I don’t blame you, wanting to run for the door, Rabbit. Must be terrifying every time I open my mouth, especially in present company.”

John looked up, as did Lestrade, suddenly aware that the underlying tension in the room had just become overt.

Sherlock’s temper flared, “Then perhaps it’s best if you keep your mouth shut.”

The witness stood up, nose to nose with Sherlock. “Brave little Rabbit. Are you gonna make me?”

In a split second, Sherlock lunged and lost, with Victor deftly maneuvering away with little effort. John sprung up to defend his friend as Lestrade wearily intervened.

“Alright, enough!” All the DI needed was Sherlock-fucking- Holmes getting into an actual fistfight to really cap off this terrible day. With relief, he caught sight of a van pulling into the parking lot outside. “Oh, good, the coroner’s here,” he said. “Sherlock, go home. Mr. Trevor, we’ll be in touch,” and with that, Lestrade slipped off to tend to official matters.

Sherlock stood, adjusting his scarf. “How did you arrange this, Victor?”

“Are you implying I’m in any way involved in this murder?”

“I’m implying that it’s altogether too convenient for you to be in this place at this time.”

Victor shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”

“Not for the murder victim. Did you know her?”

“Of course I didn’t!”

“Of course you’d lie if you did!” shouted Sherlock.

Quietly, John leaned in to Sherlock. “Pull back on the aggro, okay? He is a witness, and maybe your friend, I don’t know, but as far as I know, not a criminal.”

Victor clapped his hand upon John’s shoulder. “Eh, let him, Doctor. He likes a good interrogation, always has.” John mentally stammered at the words, working his mouth a few times in response before abandoning the course of conversation altogether.

“As for you,” Victor turned his attention to Sherlock. “If you want to know why I had them call you, you’ll meet me for dinner. Usual place – can’t believe it’s still there after all this time. Eight o-clock.” He headed for the stairs, leaving parting words at the door.

“Oh, and Rabbit? Don’t keep me waiting…”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***End-Note Extra***
> 
> For this fic (and likely future ones), Victor Trevor was written with Chuck Palahniuk's Tyler Durden in mind. I liked the idea of a rougher character, like Durden, in London and interacting with the boys of 221B -- and while Victor is NOT Durden, he's certainly painted with a similar brush.
> 
> Just something to think about for the chapters to follow!
> 
> Enjoy, you fabulously filthy little lovelies!  
> vex.


	2. "Play It Safe"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tense cab ride, a whirlwind tantrum and a tiny taste of pervy fun at the end!

The black cab turned up Cromwell Road, on its way to Baker Street, and apart from the clicks of the taxi meter and the occasional tuneless whistle of the driver, it was silent.

John broke the silence. “So, that was a surprise, running into an old classmate,” he said, testing the conversational waters.

Sherlock refused the bait, staring out the window at some imperceptible point.

John tried again. “Victor Trevor. His name sounds like a character from an adventure novel, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock responded with a non-committal grunt, from deep in his throat.

Well, that was a kind of a response, John thought. Perhaps third time’s the charm. “Rude the way he kept calling you ‘Rabbit’, especially after y—“

Sherlock interrupted with a curt “John, leave it!” and whipped his coat around him in the car, twisting his body towards the window, presenting his full back to his flatmate. John sighed and they finished the drive in silence.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with John pointedly trying to ignore the living, breathing temper-tantrum that whirled around 221B. He sat in his chair and read while Sherlock broke violin strings and random bits of crockery, ruined his latest kitchen table experiment and texted someone (Mycroft?) madly. John had only known Sherlock for a few months, but he knew him well enough to know that sometimes you just have to let the storm run its course. Lucky for them, patience was one of John’s many virtues.

He was a patient man, all right, but also a curious one. Wondering about Sherlock, John had noticed, had become his primary source of entertainment these days. When an ordinary person like John spends time around someone as extraordinary as Sherlock, it’s only natural that they become a bit (obsessed), no, _interested_ in the way they live their lives, the (people), no _things_ they like, the way they (stroke their thighs), no, _behave_ when they’re excited.

It was all natural, it was all to be expected, and none of it was in any way indicative that John was _actually_ attracted to Sherlock in any way other than as a platonic friend.  However, the consistent rise in the front of his pants whenever Sherlock spoke in a particular tone, or stood too close, or looked at him with the full impact of those bluegreygreen eyes, that -- _that_ was another story. A story he’d been telling himself at bedtime for the last three weeks, a story that never failed to bring him off, the thought of Sherlock in his ear, whispering in that flawless baritone, always taking the lead, careless, cruel and bossy. Sometimes fantasy does follow reality, and Sherlock was always in control in real life. Certainly, John knew ways to modify his behavior somewhat, to help him negotiate certain social situations and do right by the people who cared for him, but ultimately, John was happy to follow this mad consulting detective wherever he might lead.

Sherlock, he assumed, was blissfully unaware of the situation, and of these kinds of situations in general, really, having adeptly avoided conversations about sex, sexual history or preferences. The doctor in Watson had idly worried about potential sexual abuse in Sherlock’s past, perhaps, and had considered the possibility of asexuality. Of course, his personality indicated some potential for diagnosis on the autism scale (Asperger’s, yes, but not quite) and that could have an effect on sexual behaviors, as well.

And yet, there were times when John felt that Sherlock was more than aware of the effect he had on people. Times when he’d say or do things that could be interpreted as downright flirtacious (that wink at the door, oh god), things that couldn’t possibly be interpreted as anything but an invitation, could they?

(Or could they? Best play it safe, soldier…)

Still, the idea that he might be aware, might be toying with, well, everyone around him? That in and of itself was fodder for endless sleepless nights.

Sherlock was a mystery, and today had brought a new piece of the puzzle, someone from Sherlock’s past, Victor Trevor, and the implication of…what? Something provocative enough to make Sherlock fight, and something that made John feel…unsettled. The stranger had been handsome, in a cagy way, broad-shouldered and quick on his feet, mentally and physically. But John hadn’t liked the way he looked at Sherlock, nor had he liked the way Sherlock had responded to him.  All the hairs on the back of John’s neck were telling him that Victor was a danger.

And then there was the matter of the dinner that Trevor had arranged with Sherlock. Could’ve been for a case, John told himself. Could just have easily been a sort of get-together for university mates, you know,  to catch-up -- although John definitely couldn’t imagine Sherlock sitting around and reminiscing about the old alma mater. Eventually, John let himself consider the possibility that what Victor had actually done was invite Sherlock out on a date.

Dear god, a date with Sherlock.

But it couldn’t be. Sherlock’s sexuality was dubious, from what John had seen -- and his flatmate had clearly not enjoyed spending a single moment in the presence of Victor Trevor. John couldn’t tell, exactly, if all the posturing, on both sides, had been attempts to threaten or seduce – but it was certainly possible it had been both. John swallowed grimly at the thought. Sherlock’s actions would tell the tale, though. If this meeting was about a case, Sherlock would surely invite John along. If it was a date, he’d go alone. Assuming he’d make the meeting at all, of course – he might just spend the rest of the evening shooting bullets into Mrs. Hudson’s walls.

But that was not what happened. Ultimately, Sherlock’s tantrum peaked and then fell off as quickly as it had begun, its end signaled with his collapsing face-first into the couch.

John looked up from his paper. “Do you want to talk?”

A muffled voice responded. “No.”

“Brilliant.” John stood up and walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on, avoiding the great shards of broken glass at every turn. “I’m not cleaning any of this up, you know, “ he shouted from the other room.

But Sherlock was not there to hear him. By the time John’s kettle had boiled, Sherlock had showered, and was in the process of shaving. The clock hovered at just before 7:30.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, wearing his best suit, his familiar coat, and, John noticed, the slightest hint of an aftershave.

“I’m…going out,” Sherlock stammered, and quickly made for the door. “Don’t wait up.”

 The door slammed behind him, leaving John alone in his wake.

“So, _not_ a case, then…” John sighed his disappointment, to no one. 

*****

Dr. John Watson had never been one to wallow, so he let himself feel disappointed and left out and even pouty for all of five minutes before coming to the sudden realization that he was actually alone in 221B – blissfully alone! – for the first time in over a month. There’s a difference between being lonely and being alone, and while John detested being lonely, he quite enjoyed being alone from time to time. Privacy is a commodity to those who rarely get it, people like new mothers and college students and, well, soldiers. To them, an evening alone is like gold in their hands, and not to be wasted.

Once he’d made that realization, it was easy to resist the ingrained urge to tidy up after Sherlock’s tantrum _(…no, you said you weren’t cleaning it up, so you bloody well won’t!_ ). He gingerly picked his way through the kitchen and grabbed two bottles of beer from the shelf _(…behind the fingers, next to the jar of eyeballs, oh Sherlock, you’re here even when you are not here…),_ then made his way back into the living room and flopped into his chair. A quick review of the telly showed there was nothing worth spending Alone Time watching, and he’d already read the newspaper front to back.

The clock ticked.

He took a long pull from one of the bottles. Sherlock wouldn’t be home for at least an hour, and if it were, in fact, an actual date, he’d be gone for several hours. Who knows, if it went well, he might not even come home until tomorrow. That would certainly be something to awkwardly not-talk about tomorrow, wouldn’t it? John smiled to himself, imagining the scene, and that imagining that led him to consider what might be going on this very minute, at The Dinner with Sherlock and Victor.

He took another long drink. It wasn’t such a stretch, imagining Sherlock on a date. He’d shared enough dinners with the man to know what that was like. He’d probably insisted on changing tables at least once by now (he preferred to keep his eyes on the door), and when it came time to order, he would do so reluctantly, randomly, because it really didn’t matter what you ordered if you weren’t actually planning on eating. He might drink. Now and again, Sherlock would drink wine, with seemingly no ill effects. With his history, Sherlock really shouldn’t drink, but when he did, John was intrigued. Seeing him with something as pedestrian as a glass of wine in his hand, it was so engagingly normal, so not-Sherlock, John couldn’t help being amused.

 _Would_ Sherlock drink tonight? Probably not. He seemed to be wary of Victor, he’d want his wits about him. Not that John had ever seen Sherlock drunk, or in any way impaired by alcohol – he was always razor sharp, that man.

A slight stirring below, and John tried his best not to connect it to his current train of thought, but it was impossible not to. Impossible not to admit that just thinking about one of Sherlock's patented withering stares brought his desire straight to the surface. He shifted in his chair, with the crap telly still on, a near-empty bottle of beer in his hand with the second nearby, sweating condensation onto the tabletop. He finished off the first, and carelessly threw the empty in the general direction of the kitchen. What was one more shard of glass in a sea of slivers?

Breaking the bottle had felt good, made him feel reckless. Sherlock made him feel reckless. He ran his hand along his cock, along the outline of his cock through his trousers, and closed his eyes. There was brief consideration of the door and the what-ifs of being walked in on, right here in the living room, a thought he banished with a Who Cares and an I’m Feeling Reckless and a long, languorous stroke against his stiffening member, jesus that felt good.

Not that he _was_ good, no.

Filthy and fuckable and frustratingly easy to arouse, yesss, absolutely, but good is something you have to earn, John…

(voice in his ear, imagine whose…)

“Good is something you have to earn, John,” and he imagined Sherlock thumbing his mouth as he said it, wetting John’s lips with his own saliva, locking eyes with him as he unbuttoned and unzipped him, right there in the chair. “Make yourself cum for me, John. I want to watch.”

And Sherlock would step away, leaning against his leather chair and watch him as if he were a specimen under a microscope, cataloguing his motions, his responses: Sherlock, ever the scientist.

John moaned, doing as he was told, wiping his hand against the sweating bottle of beer for moisture, the ice cold water painful against his cock, eliciting a shiver from the doctor (and a smirk from the watching detective). The water warmed under the motion of his hand, but wasn’t slippery enough, left too much friction, but the lube was upstairs and John didn’t want to leave this spot, not with Sherlock watching and his cock so fucking hard, so good, fuck…

“And besides,” Sherlock purred suddenly at his ear. “You like it when it hurts a little, don’t you?”

John nodded with a groan, and stroked his cock harder. Because he did like it, liked the way pain could make his heart pound and his cheeks flush, liked the panicky feeling of being told to cum on command, for an audience, even just this audience of one. He liked a lot of things that nice doctors who wore cable-knit jumpers weren’t supposed to know about, much less want.

 “Want?” Sherlock laughed. “No, John. Need. You need this, need to be used like the filthy little fuck you are.”

“Oh, god,” John gasped as he roughly gripped himself, one hand on his cock, the other squeezing his bollocks, increasing the pace, rolling his hips, his breath hitching, so good, so goddamn good…

“Don’t you?” Sherlock demanded.

“Yesss…” John arched his back in the chair, his leaking cock bobbing as he spat into his hands, adding more slip to his stroke, the spitting making him think of messy girls and bois on porn sites, submissives on their knees, submissives like him, gagging on cocks the way he imagines gagging on Sherlock’s, fuck me, yess…and now he’s imagining Sherlock’s cock, long and pale and thin like the man himself, and it’s deep inside him, inside his throat and he’s choking on it, and Sherlock lets out a deep growl that reaches into John’s very soul, and he’s stroking harder and sucking harder and begging for this moment to never, ever end because he likes being right on the edge of cumming, likes reeling from this want and hunger for a man who never seems to want or hunger for anything or anyone, especially not…

“John. Cum for me. Now.”

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***End-Note Extra***
> 
> I've always loved John's beautiful stoicism, which is why my own personal head canon casts him as a bottom (or at least a switch) in any bdsm story. His patience, his inherent long-suffering nature is beautiful!
> 
> Stay tuned for more!  
> vex.


	3. "It's Not What You Think"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes an early-morning discovery that changes his world; Lestrade discovers that the shooting case isn't exactly open and shut...
> 
> FYI: No sex in this one, dears -- but stay tuned because there is some **delish** porn on the horizon!

John woke at six the next morning. He was scheduled for the early shift at surgery, which meant he’d be dealing with loads of “morning after” injuries – broken arms, minor burns, cuts requiring stitches and the like – the kinds of injuries that happen on Friday nights when liquid courage gives rise to bad decisions.

Not that he was in a position to criticize. After all, he’d had a beer or two the night before, and some would probably consider masturbating to an imaginary, rather sadistic version of your flatmate to be a bad decision -- but he didn’t. Of course, that fact wouldn’t stop him from blushing and stammering his way through his next interaction with Sherlock – it was inevitable. The shame of having integrated his possibly asexual roommate into his fantasies, paired with his usual shame over the content of said fantasies made for a now-familiar brand of embarrassment, one that made him really hope he wouldn’t run into Sherlock in the flat this morning.

_(…assuming the bastard’s even home yet…)_

Okay, yes, John admitted, last night he had intentionally stayed up a little later than usual, just to see if Sherlock would come home at a decent hour.

But he had not.

And now, hours past a “decent hour”, there was still no sign of him in the sitting room, and the kitchen was empty. John made a cup of tea, and considered the hallway that led to Sherlock’s room.

_(After all, he might want some tea…)_

Nope, not going to check up on him like his mother. Let him make his own bloody tea!

_(What if he’s not there?)_

Then he’s still with that American and piss off with your jealousy, you git, because he’s not yours, never was…

_(What if he’s hurt?)_

He paused at that one. John had appraised Victor Trevor as dangerous the previous day at the hotel, and even Sherlock had treated him like a suspect. What if Trevor had done something to him? Even if Trevor were utterly harmless, Sherlock could’ve been hit by a bus or mugged or fallen victim to any number of horrors lurking in the middle of the night. After all, London was a big city.

He had to check, and embarrassment be damned.

He had a responsibility, as a Doctor, to check.

Right?

_(Right.)_

“Right, then,” decision made, he bolted down the back hall, flipping the light switch on as he passed. There was no sign of Sherlock in the loo, leaving the bedroom the only remaining option. John let out a deep breath before knocking faintly on the door.

“Sherlock? You home?” John stared down at the ground, ear to the door.

Nothing. Slightly louder raps.

“Sherlock, are you there?”

Not a word, not a noise.

John twisted the doorknob.

Relief flooded his system at first sight of Sherlock’s long limbs, tangled in with the bed sheets, his face smashed beneath his pillow, dark curls peeking out, all askew. He must’ve been at least slightly out of sorts the night before, as he was not wearing his pajama bottoms and hadn’t even managed a t-shirt -- meaning he was lying there in the bed wearing only pants, and they were of a sort that John never imagined Sherlock would own…

_(tight and small and disturbingly European)_

John smiled to himself, storing this fact away in his own personal Mind Palace for appropriate teasing at a later date.

Sherlock snored a bit, and rolled towards the window, turning his back to John. That’s when he first saw the bruises, visible even in the dim light of the bedroom.

John drew in a breath as he clicked into Doctor mode, turning on Sherlock’s bedside lamp and kneeling down to examine the wounds. The light revealed two raised welts along his back, deep pink, with a bit of broken skin in one, and triangular bruises leading down into those ridiculous pants.

His mind began running through possible scenarios that would result in injuries that matched Sherlock’s, and was a second away from rousing his flatmate with a “Bloody hell, Sherlock!”, when he suddenly realized he knew precisely what those wounds were and exactly how he’d come by them.

_(Oh.)_

Right, “Oh”. Get the fuck out of here, Doctor.

_(But…I don’t understand.)_

You do understand. Get the fuck out of here and go to work.

_(But he’s hurt.)_

He’ll be fine. Get out before he wakes up.

He backed out of he room quietly, pulling the door shut with a soft click, and headed for the front door of 221b with his mind reeling, his heart racing and adrenaline coursing through his veins.

 

 

 

*****

**It’s not what you think – SH**

The text had come midway through John’s shift – after the shop clerk’s broken finger, before the student’s scratched cornea and right in the middle of the barrister’s puzzling case of hives. He ignored the text because he was with a patient, but also because he wasn’t quite sure what to say. What could he say? “I’m really kind of freaked out because you’re not who I thought you were and I’m disappointed that you’re more like me than I’d imagined?”

Uh, no. Fuck no.

He wasn’t surprised that Sherlock had deduced his early morning visit, nor was he surprised that he knew what conclusion the Doctor had drawn from the evidence. No doubt John had left behind some tell-tale clue that Sherlock wouldn’t hesitate to share with him the next time he saw him.

But until then, there was the matter of the unanswered text. John thought for a moment, and chose to skirt the issue with a little humor, a little humility and some intentional stupidity.

**It rarely is – that’s why you’re the consulting detective. You home, then? –j**

There was a bit of a pause before Sherlock responded back. In his mind’s eye, John could imagine the detective weighing the possibility that his deduction might be wrong against the possibility of John intentionally being thick. His response back did not betray which possibility won out…

**Yes. And we need milk. - SH**

John sighed and looked at the clock. Yesterday morning, Sherlock Homes was just his genius flatmate, a man with no discernable sexual history or orientation – a lovely blank canvas for John’s fantasies, with added cheekbones and a wicked voice to boot. 24 hours later, and Sherlock’s suddenly, what? Gay, kinky and rekindling an old flame with an attractive and presumably perverse foreigner? He was with Victor Trevor last night, and those were undoubtedly crop marks on Sherlock’s skin. It was all too much.

And how could Sherlock be submissive, anyway? This was the man who’d once asked John to drop everything and cross town in order to _hand him a pen_. Yes, certainly, some powerful people bottom, use it as a stress-reliever, but for fuck’s sake, we’re talking about Sherlock Holmes!

John's phone didn't chime again until the end of his shift, as he was writing a prescription for his last patient of the day.

**Developments in shooting case, Lestrade’s expecting us. Pick you up in 10. – SH**

So, ten minutes later, John exchanged his white doctor’s coat for his black shooting jacket, said goodbye to the nurses and, with a slight nervousness in his belly, went out to meet Sherlock at the curb.

Surprisingly, Sherlock appeared to be a bit anxious as well, his face solemn as John entered the cab. There was an awkward pause as both men stared at the road as the taxi pulled away.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “So, now you know.”

“I suppose I do,” John nodded.

“Do you think…less of me?” Sherlock’s eyes locked with John’s, uncharacteristically emotional.

John shook his head. “I said it once, I’ll say it again, it’s all fine.”

“Really?” Sherlock's pained expression broke into a grin, “Because I think those pants are truly an abomination – beyond the pale for any respectable Englishman, in my opinion, and most definitely Not Fine.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers and began to laugh, the sound immediately breaking the tension in the cab. “Yeah, not what I expected at 6am. You wear those a lot, then?”

Sherlock smiled. “Come on, is that the best you can do? I was expecting a full onslaught of jokes about those pants.”

“I’m saving them up for a rainy day, so consider yourself warned! ” John grinned. “Besides, I'm still curious about your deductions from this morning. What gave me away? How’d you know I was in your room?”

Sherlock relaxed into the backseat. “The lamp, John. My bedside lamp. You left it on. Hall light as well. Very sloppy…”

“Yeah, well, the pants threw me.” John riffed. There was a slight pause as he shifted his tone. “So, uh, so did the bruises, Sherlock.”

His back stiffened. “I’m fine, John. Really.”

“I know it’s none of my business.”

“Look, you’re a doctor, I understand. When you didn’t wake me this morning after seeing…I suspected that you may have run into this…kind of injury before, with a patient, and, and that, that’s why you ran.” Sherlock’s words sounded stilted. “It made you uncomfortable.”

“No,” John started, “It doesn’t ma-“

Sherlock interrupted. “Look, we’re almost at the Yard. Can we continue this conversation later tonight? It’s important that you not draw any conclusions from the limited dataset of one late night and a few bruises.”

“And some truly heinous, tiny little pants, don’t forget. They go into the dataset as well,” John smiled warmly at his friend as the cab pulled up to NSY. “Sure, we’ll talk later.”

 

*****

Inside, DI Lestrade was not happy. He slid a file across his desk to John as Sherlock examined the photographs of the shooting crime scene tacked up on the wall.

“Chad Wilson, husband of Melinda Wilson -- our victim at the hotel -- is missing.”

Sherlock snorted. “Obviously. You kill your wife, you go underground.”

“Yes, but usually you do that _after_ you kill your wife. Chad Wilson was reported missing by his wife eight years ago. His case was deemed Death in Absentia by the High Court just last year.”

John flipped through the file. “So you’re saying that our key murder suspect in this case is technically, legally dead?

“That is exactly what I’m saying.” Lestrade nodded to Sherlock. “All of a sudden, the case is becoming a little less tedious, don’t you think?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***End-Note Extra***
> 
> Because I know you need a visual:
> 
> [ UPDATED LINK](http://www.2xist.com/p/021220/stretch-no-show-brief-2-pack.html%20in%20black_Black%20Stripe)! Thanks, Fondli!
> 
> (You're welcome, you naughty things!)  
> vex.


	4. "The Genius Whisperer"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's dataset is expanded, and Sherlock becomes a Jedi Knight.

 

 

Sherlock began texting before the meeting with Lestrade had ended.

“Victor?” John asked.

“Obviously -- he was the one who ID’d Wilson in the first place.” Sherlock tapped in a few more words and hit “send” with predictable flourish.

“You think he made a mistake?”

“Victor being mistaken would be the dullest of explanations, so I sincerely hope not.” Sherlock pushed through the front doors of NSY and out onto the sidewalk. “If he doesn’t respond immediately, we’ll have at least a few hours to wait.”

“We could always try to catch up to him in person…”

Sherlock shot him a knowing smirk. “An unannounced visit? No, not a good idea, John…” He raised his hand to an oncoming cab. “It’s too late at night to reasonably track down any remaining members of the Wilson clan. The lover’s got potential for a revisit, but all in all, I want to hear what Victor has to say first.”

“So, where are we going?”

“Home? Or dinner, if you’re hungry.”

“I am if you are,” John never hesitated on the rare occasions when Sherlock initiated a meal. He slid into the cab.

“You know? I actually am tonight…” Sherlock said, seeming genuinely surprised at his body’s response. “Indian or Thai?”

 

*****

 

Twenty minutes later and they were settling in at a quiet corner table at Thai Rice, but Sherlock’s thoughts were neither settled nor quiet.

Predictably, Victor’s appearance had already begun to leave chaos in its wake. Not even a day had passed and Sherlock had already lost hours of time, had presumably missed key deductions in a case and he now found himself in the humiliating position of having to explain himself to his only friend and flatmate.

His mind raced.

_(Rabbit…)_

Shut up. Close your eyes. Get your mind in order, Holmes… 

 ~~~~~~**_Facts:_ ** _The bruises and welts are physical evidence;_~~

~~_**Observed:** John’s pained look in the taxi, his gentle tone,“So did the bruises, Sherlock”, John will NOT be able to let this go;_ ~~

~~_**Extrapolation:** Without explanation, John will likely leap/has already leapt to any number of [inaccurate] conclusions, the range of which is limited only by John’s sexual knowledge base, his moral compass and any personal biases he may harbor concerning sexual roles [all unknown, research pending];_ ~~

~~_**Observed:** John is kind and wholesome and dates girls named Sarah. He wears oatmeal-coloured jumpers, for god’s sake;_ ~~

~~_**Analysis:** People who wear oatmeal-coloured jumpers are unlikely to understand the deeper nuances of breathplay or ballgags. Anticipated reaction [based on limited data]: Repulsion, with a potential side of pity [presuming misinterpretation of the evidence];_ ~~

~~_**Conclusion** : Better for John to think you’re a hopeless pervert than a hapless abuse victim. EXPLAIN EVERYTHING_~~ 

Sherlock opened his eyes with a start, and let out a slow, deep breath.

John paused, mid-chew. “You alright?”

“Always.” Sherlock snapped, in a fair imitation of confidence. “Thinking about the case, it’s nothing.”

The waitress took away the starter plates and brought around their entrees, refilling water glasses and delivering a fresh beer to John’s side.

Sherlock checked his phone. No messages. He flipped it over on the table and turned his attention to his flatmate.

“Okay, John,” started Sherlock. “As promised, I think its time we expanded your dataset…”

 

*****

 

“I was nineteen when I met Victor. At Uni, like he said, but I lied when I said he was a graduate student. Victor was nothing of the sort…”

 

_The first time Sherlock had met him, it had been late at night. He’d been working in the chemistry lab after hours, monitoring an organic reaction. It was an experiment that didn’t normally require after-hours work, but the school’s reflux condensers had recently gone missing, so he was forced to monitor the reaction in person and manually add solvent._

_Tedious._

_The work was boring, but Sherlock didn’t really mind being alone in the lab. It was better than spending time in the dorms with his vacuous roommate, or scrubbing through the research library’s disappointingly limited resources. The lab was like a second home, and besides – with everyone else gone, he could ditch the safety goggles and leave his hair loose around the Bunsen burners. Safety rules were important, yes, but he was of the opinion that rules were for people who didn’t think – and thinking was all that Sherlock did._

_His hip beeped. He didn’t even have to pick up the pager to know it was Mycroft, nosy little bastard. He ignored it, and the next time it chimed, he threw the bloody thing across the room, hoping against hope that it would break for once and for all._

_That’s when he heard the crash – not of the pager on the floor, but of glassware in the basement. Sherlock looked up, suddenly alert. He was not alone._

_Switching off the heat source beneath the reaction, Sherlock thought quickly, grabbing the collapsible pointer from behind the professor’s desk. He slipped out the doorway quietly and listened in the darkened hallway.  Another series of noises filtered up from below – not breaking glass, this time, but rather, the sound of something heavy being dragged across a floor. He shrugged off a small shiver of fear and chose, instead to embrace the adrenaline surge. The whole situation was unpredictable and exciting, but best of all, it was new, and new data was to be consumed in great, greedy fistfuls. In the dark, his eyes shone, as he descended the basement stairs, not knowing what he would find when at the bottom. He lifted the pointer to his shoulder and entered the room…_

_“What the fuck is that, a car antenna? You! Put that down and help me lift this…”_

_A blond man crossed to him from the far corner of the basement: mid-20s, solidly built, sweaty. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, and tattoos peeked out from beneath his carelessly mismatched second-hand clothes. Sherlock felt he should have been repelled, but instead, he felt a pull from somewhere deep inside._

_“Who are you?”_

_“I’m the guy who’s telling you to pick up that corner.” The man nudged the corner of a worn-looking footlocker in his direction._

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes. American accent. Burns on his fingers, bruises on his knuckles, stubbled chin. “You don’t work for the university, do you?”_

_“And if I told you I did?”_

_“Then I wouldn’t believe you.”_

_“Good boy,” the man drawled, flicking away his cigarette butt. “Your school’s literature doesn’t lie, you do represent the best and the brightest. Now, pick up_ _that goddamned corner.”_

 

 

“What was in the box?”

“Lab supplies. Victor was a chemist – he made ecstasy, a little acid, sometimes, nothing too serious, -- sold it to students and a surprising number of the faculty members. He’d been nicking supplies from the basement storage room for years, but he’d never been caught until that night.”

John nodded. “So, he was your first case.”

“He was my first collar.” Sherlock corrected, “I just never quite got around to turning him in.”

 

 

_Instead, Sherlock followed him home. The man had asked if he’d help him carry the trunk into his house -- and considering its contents, Sherlock had hoped there might be some sort of reward for helping._

_Victor lived in town, in an empty house that Sherlock would later find out belonged to some mythical friend that no one ever saw. They carried the trunk into the foyer, and lowered it to the ground with care._

_“Thanks…” Victor said. “Beer?”_

_Sherlock didn’t really drink, had never really seen the point. He’d tried it once and disliked the way it made him feel, all sleepy and dull, but he automatically responded with a polite “Yes, please,” and watched Victor disappear into what he assumed was the kitchen._

_He looked around him as he waited. The house was furnished with items that had clearly been left behind by previous owners. There was a large desk in the middle of the living room, stacked with papers and books and a sofa that had certainly seen better days. From where he stood, Sherlock could just make out the corner of a steel-topped kitchen table, which seemed to have been appropriated entirely for lab work._

_Victor returned, and handed him the beer. “What’s your name?”_

_“Sherlock. Family name. Stupid…”_

_Victor shot him an appraising look. “You’re not stupid, though, are you, Sherlock?” And the way he said his name that first time, it was like he was tasting it…_

_Sherlock met his eyes. “No, I’m not.”_

_“Too smart, in fact, for your own good, huh?”_

_“Frequently.”_

_“Bored?”_

_“God, yes.”_

_“It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Victor empathized. “The way your mind races?”_

_Sherlock nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, exactly!”_

_“What would you do if I told you that I know a way to slow it down?”_

_Victor had begun circling him, suddenly predatory. The beer turned bitter on Sherlock’s tongue, and his heart began to pound, fast, so very fast that he wondered if Victor had slipped something in his drink…_

_~~Rohypnol, probably, flunitrazepam C16H12FN3O3, an intermediate acting benziodiazepine used as a hypnotic sedative, anticonvulsive, anxiolytic and skeletal muscle relaxant, probably homemade right there on the kitchen table, lipophilic, metabolized hepatically via oxidative pathways, enhances GABA at the GABA A receptor-~~ **  
**_

_“Sherlock!” He felt the flat of Victor’s hand firmly between his shoulder blades. “Stop.”_

_And then a truly amazing thing happened:_

_Sherlock stopped._

 

“So, what? He’s the Genius Whisperer or something?”

“He focused me, John. It’s hard to explain. He turned my mind away from itself and on to him, and it was like breathing for the first time.”

John shifted in his chair. “Does that mean that you were, what? Lovers?”

Sherlock flushed at the question. “Does it matter?”

John looked at him blankly, patiently.

Sherlock lifted his chin. “It’s a bit…complicated.”

 

 

_It was complicated, yes, but it only took one night for Victor and Sherlock to sort things out._

_With a growl and a shove, Victor knocked Sherlock to the floor, his cock pressing up against the younger man’s belly. “Ever fucked a man, Sherlock?”_

_Sherlock rebounded, wrapping a long leg around Victor’s hip and gaining just enough purchase to lift his upper body from the ground. “Ask me again tomorrow”, he chaffed, and strained against the bigger man, stubbornly refusing to give an inch._

_“Got some fight in you…that’s good,” Victor’s stomach muscles tensed, and his hands scrabbled against the floor. “I…like a struggle.”_

_“Me, too.” Sherlock gasped, just as his leg muscles gave way. Victor lurched forward, but left just enough room for Sherlock to slip out from under him. He stood up, and stripped off his jeans and t-shirt._

_Victor quickly followed suit, the mismatched clothes falling to the floor, revealing golden skin and sculpted muscles and something unexpected._

_“You’ve got to be kidding me…” Sherlock shook his head._

_Victor was naked…but for his pants, which were_

_(tight and small and disturbingly European)_

_Victor beamed back, nodding for effect. “Like that, do you?”_

_“You’re ridiculous,” Sherlock laughed. “Take them off before I tear them off!”_

_He complied, and then it was Sherlock’s turn to tackle, his thighs straddling the other man’s hips, the feel of skin-on-skin lush and warm and wicked beneath him. Victor reached a hand up and grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s hair, tugging hard and pulling his face close to his. “You’re almost too pretty to fuck, aren’t you?”_

_Sherlock felt a thrum of electricity along his spine. “Strong words from a man who’s lying flat on his back.”_

_“Not for long…” and he reared up, clamping his knees to Sherlock’s waist, the weight of Victor’s body rolling them over together, as one. He nipped at that long, pale neck and teased Sherlock’s nipples with cruel little twists. “You’re nineteen…I remember nineteen. You’re so hard right now, and you won’t last another five minutes,” he sneered, working his hips against Sherlock, shallow pulses that made Sherlock’s mind reel. “But before you cum, I want that mouth wrapped around my cock. I want to choke you, and leave you gagging…”_

_One of Victor’s hands tightened against Sherlock’s neck, collapsing against that indecent suprasternal notch, while the other wrapped around his shaft, giving him a series of short, sharp strokes. Whimpers and moans rose from Sherlock’s throat and he wanted Victor so badly, but mostly, Sherlock wanted to **be** Victor, to pin **him** down, choke **him** out, wanted **him** helpless and pliable, and fuck...his cock was leaking, and he was embarrassed, but then Victor was slapping it, and it felt good, felt good for him to slap his cock because it gave Sherlock so many lovely ideas… _

_Victor moved his hand from Sherlock’s throat to his chest. “Your fucking heart is beating so fast,” he marveled, “just like a rabbit’s…”_

_Later that night, Victor and Sherlock would take turns slamming one another against the walls of Victor’s shitty abandoned-house bedroom, and the morning would find them both battered and bruised, and covered in each other’s cum._

 

 

“Was he your first?”

Sherlock nodded. “There were some girls before…but it was different.”

John cleared his throat. “So, he started you, sexually. Did he start you on the drugs as well?”

Sherlock paused, noting John’s shift in tone. “The drugs came later.”

John persisted. “But they started with Victor, didn’t they?”

“The drugs are not the point of this story, John.” Sherlock scolded, so firmly that John felt the words reverberate inside him. 

The doctor leaned in. “Then tell me what **is** ,” His voice hitched in his throat, the air in the room growing thick. He felt out of breath and strangely nervous…

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, taking note of John’s shifting body language, and the change in his voice. Curious.

 

 

_“What do you know about Power Exchange, Rabbit?”_

_Victor prodded him awake with his foot, kicking just below his ribs. Sherlock woke slowly, his body aching from the previous night’s exertions. The older man threw him a bag of ice to him, to cool his split lip._

_“Nothing.” Sherlock shook his head, flushing a bit, ashamed that a gap in his knowledge had been exposed._

_Victor groaned. “Fuck, when you blush, with that white skin, it just makes me want to tear you apart.”_

_“I’d like to see you try it,” Sherlock mumbled sleepily._

_“Wake up and listen, you little shit, and you just might learn something.”_

 

 

“What do you know about Power Exchange, John?”

John’s face reddened as he predictably stammered his response. “It’s, a, uh, I suppose it would be considered a kind of sexual, ah, kink, I guess, where one partner sort of willingly surrenders themselves to another?”

“Quite a progressive definition, John, words chosen very carefully – delicately, even.” He stabbed a piece of squid with his fork. “As if you were trying very hard not to offend.”

 

 

“ _You should have just said ‘S &M’ or whatever,” Sherlock said crossly. “I would’ve known what **that** meant.”_

_They were taking a shortcut through the woods, on their way into town to buy beer._

_Victor took a long drag from his cigarette. “You’re not a switch.”_

_Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. “Neither are you.”_

 

 

“Look, Sherlock, I…I know what I saw this morning.”

“Do you?” Sherlock challenged. “I’d be willing to wager a very high sum of money that you don’t, not really.”

“Alright, but if I do, dinner’s on you. Fair enough?”

Sherlock humored him. “Do your worst, John.”

John contemplated the man sitting across the table from him, and then put his fork down, just so. He took a sip of water, and when he finally spoke, he did so quietly, quickly, in a matter-of-fact manner and with a markedly familiar cadence.

“The marks were made by a crop, technically a hogslapper, like the one you take to the morgue – might’ve even been that one, but I’m guessing your Victor brings his own. He got a little enthusiastic last night, a little sloppy, and caught your back with the flat edge of the handle several times, leaving welts and breaking the skin in the process. There was some limited evidence of aftercare, so maybe he’s got some wits about him, but the visible bite marks on your ear lobes are proof that discretion isn’t exactly Victor’s forte. I didn’t notice them this morning because your head was under a pillow, which also prevented me from noticing the fact that you’d been gagged with gaffer’s tape, the kind film people use. It was on long enough to irritate the skin around your mouth.” John lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. “Do you need more, or is that enough?”

Sherlock’s mouth gaped for a moment, recognizing his own tone, his own demeanor in John. He felt a sharp sting of pride. “How did you do that?”

John smiled. “I follow you around all day, you twit, you think I’m not picking up a thing or two?”

“But how do you know so much about…aftercare and, and hogslappers? Did you have a patient or, or…?”

 “I am a doctor, Sherlock. It’s my business to know the different ways people can hurt one another.”

Sherlock felt his bruised earlobe, and winced at the touch. “Fair enough, but what was the sum of your observations this morning? You saw all these things, but what did you actually **see**?”

 “I saw a submissive, Sherlock, the morning after -- which, you know, is…“

 “…all fine, I know, but it’s not all fine because it’s not correct, John. That’s what my text was about.” Sherlock balled up his napkin and placed it beside his plate.

“Wait, wait, wait…” John gestured for him to stop. “You admit that you went out with Victor last night?”

“Yes.”

“And that you went back home with him?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s long black eyelashes dipped downward with the admission.

“And that, uh…” John swallowed hard. “…that you willingly, uh, let him hurt you?”

Sherlock returned his gaze. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“But you’re saying you’re not a submissive?”

Sherlock shot him a broad smile. “No, John.”

 

 

_Back at the house, Sherlock helped himself to a pack of Victor’s cigarettes. “So where does that leave us?”_

_Victor sat behind the kitchen table, mixing chemicals in measured amounts. “It means that we’re not Leia and Han, we’re Luke and Obi Wan.”_

_“Translation?”_

_“Seriously, you never saw Star Wars?” Victor rolled his eyes._

 

 

“Alright then,” John scrubbed his face with his hands. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about now, and I’ve seen _Star Wars_.”

“Let me make this as uncomplicated as I possibly can.” The waitress came by with the bill, which Sherlock intercepted. “Victor isn’t my Master, he’s my Mentor.”

And that’s when Sherlock said the thing that would haunt John’s sleepless nights for weeks to come:

“We’re both Dominant,” he said, “and Victor taught me everything I know.”

John sat back, trying to take it all in. 

“You submit to him, though?”

“Usually only in the context of a hands-on demonstration.” Sherlock explained. “It’s not responsible to play at things I’ve never felt myself.”

“And last night? Surely you’ve used a hogslapper before.”

Sherlock pinked, slightly. “Put two alpha males in one room, we’re bound to scrap. Trust me, he’s wearing several of my marks today as well.” The detective cleared his throat, nervously, and locked eyes with his flatmate. “John, are you…are we, okay? I mean, is _all of_ _this_ really “all fine”?

As if on cue, Sherlock’s phone trilled. Victor, surely, but Sherlock ignored it, waiting for John’s response.

John held Sherlock’s gaze for a moment longer before answering. “Sherlock, you’re really fine, and we’re fine.” He smiled, and Sherlock felt an immense weight lift from his shoulders.

John reached for the check. “And, apparently, I owe you dinner.”

“Don’t be daft, John – I’ll charge it to Mycroft.”

John thought back to the previous day. “You know, there is something doesn’t make sense, though, Sherlock. If you and Victor are old Jedi pals, why were you so hostile to each other that first day at the hotel?”

Sherlock’s mobile trilled again, and he flipped it over.

**Rabbit: are these _human_ eyeballs in your fridge? VICTOR**

“You can ask him yourself, John: it looks like we’ve got company.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***End-Note Extras***
> 
> [This is where the boys had dinner](http://www.thairicelondon.com/)  
> (John had Pad Thai with prawns, Sherlock chose Drunken Noodle with Squid)
> 
> Thanks for Dakota State University for posting their [Organic Chemistry Laboratory Manual](http://www.homepages.dsu.edu/bleilr/nporg.pdf) online, so that this decidedly unscientific writer could throw out some legitimate reason for Sherlock to be alone in the lab at night!
> 
> Thanks to Starbucks for their providing their customers with access to free wifi, so I could Google “rohypnol” without fear of repercussions.
> 
> Finally, someone get Oxford University a better copywriter for their website, because their admissions page [actually does include the phrase "the best and the brightest" when describing their students](http://www.ox.ac.uk/admissions/undergraduate_courses/index.html)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter, you decadent darlings!  
> vex.


	5. "Cockblock"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock return to 221B to confront Victor, with surprising results.

John didn’t like the idea of Victor Trevor being in their house without them there.

John didn’t like the idea of Victor Trevor, being in their house at all.

John just didn’t like the idea of Victor Trevor, period.

They arrived home to find Trevor lying on the sitting room couch, with his shoes on the cushions, drinking John’s beer and reading from a stack of newspaper clippings that John kept in a basket under the desk, reference materials for the blog.

John couldn’t help but notice that everything Trevor had appropriated while alone in the flat had been something of _his_. He felt like one of those birds in that Disney fish movie – Beer? MINE. Newspapers? MINE. Sherlock?

Fuck…

“Naughty of you to break into the house while we were away, Victor.”

“I’m a naughty boy, Rabbit, you know that.” he grinned. “Perhaps you should call that silver-fox detective and have him arrest me.“

“Answer our questions and I won’t have to,” Sherlock purred.

“See?!” Victor said, turning to John. “He loves an interrogation! Pity you don’t have a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Ah, memories, huh, Sherlock?”

John moved to the edge of his chair. “We know about Chad Wilson.”

“Yeah, I thought you might.”

Sherlock templed his fingers. “So why did you lie to the police? To me?”

“You’d rather I spill everything I know, every detail about this right here, right now?” Victor made a face and shook it off. “That wouldn’t be fun, would it?”

“This isn’t fun, Victor,” spat John with no small bitterness in his voice. “A woman is dead…”

“You don’t think I’m aware of that fact?” Victor’s mood turned dark in a flash. “I watched her die. I saw the life drain out of her eyes. So you don’t need to fucking remind me that a woman has died, Doctor…”

John looked away, mouth tight. Sherlock tilted his head, curious.

“Stop it, Rabbit,” Victor smiled bitterly. “I know that look -- and no, that wasn’t a confession.”

“No, wouldn’t be much sport in that, would there?” Sherlock mused.

“None whatsoever.” Victor leaned back, arms wide and casually resting on the back of the couch. “Look, I promised you an explanation last night, Sherlock, about why I insisted on having you at the scene. Then things got a little…busy, and we never had that talk.”

Sherlock pinked – actually pinked, the flush against his pale skin impossible to hide. John clenched a fist lightly beneath the Union Jack pillow.

“I wanted to tell you that I needed you there because I trust you.”

“You mean, you trust him to keep you from a murder charge?” John snorted. “Because he won’t, you know. He won’t throw a case to keep you out of prison. He’s a good man.”

Victor nodded. “I know he is. That’s why I needed him. Need him.”

Sherlock remained utterly still for a moment, fingers still at his lips. “You want John and I to investigate a murder that you clearly have some personal connection to and no small amount of knowledge about, but you refuse to share any details about the crime, preferring instead to turn it into a game.”

“It’s ghastly,” said John.

“Macabre, even,” said Victor.

“And certainly in poor taste.” Sherlock sat up, impulsively. “We’ll take the job.”

John looked over at him, open-mouthed.

“Two conditions, though:” sad Sherlock, “One, if I find you are guilty of this crime, expect no mercy. You’ll be turned over to the Met so fast your head will spin. Second, you refrain from calling me Rabbit outside the bedroom.”

“Excellent! I agree to your conditions, Rab-err, Sherlock.” Victor smiled. It was settled then. The game, such as it was, appeared to be afoot…for all but one of the men in the room.

“Sherlock, can we talk?” John stood, awkwardly. “In private?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*****

By the time the pair made their way up to John’s room (Sherlock’s was too close, the landing was too public and the bathroom was too weird), John was livid.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, what was that?”

“A case?”

“No, that’s not a case, that’s a fucked up kind of foreplay, with murder as a backdrop. This is not okay.”

“It’s a challenge, John. Come on, can’t you taste it?”

“I won’t be party to this.” John crossed his arms.

“I can’t do this alone. I mean,” Sherlock furrowed his brow and reconsidered. “I _can_ do this alone, obviously, but I don’t want to. I want to do this with you.”

Hearing those words from that man in this room triggered an automatic response in John, one he wasn’t prepared to deal with right now. Right now, he was angry, and trying to be the voice of reason, not the voice of a man so weakened by Sherlock’s proximity that he suddenly couldn’t think straight.   

“He’s guilty, Sherlock, he all but admitted it.”

“But he didn’t admit it, did he?”

“I think he wants you investigating so that you’ll cover up the evidence for him.”

“You know I wouldn’t do that.”

“There is precedent, Sherlock. You _are_ a good man, but I know you’ve looked the other way at least once before.”

Sherlock stared back at John. They both remembered the robbery of the Countess of Morcar. “That was different, John. Outside of the goose, no one died in that case. And arguably, there were moral reasons to keep Ryder out of prison. Look, you dislike Victor, that’s clear – I’m not sure if that’s because of my initial reaction to him at the crime scene, or because of what you saw this morning, but think about it – disliking Victor as much as you do, do you think there’s a chance in hell that there will be anything even remotely moral about his involvement here?”

John considered it. “Not bloody likely.”

“Then the likeliest result of this investigation will be you getting the pleasure of watching Lestrade escort him to prison. Worth your time, then?”

John didn’t want to admit it, but Sherlock was making a great deal of sense. Growing up poor, John had dealt with Victor’s type before – yes, he was a Yank, but he was a pikey sort of Yank – the kind of guy who's always working some angle, whether it was a con, or drugs, or any number of quick scams. Charming sometimes, yes, and quick, but always on the wrong side of things. If he did, in fact, murder that woman, it would be well worth it, of course. And the idea of putting a tall prison wall between Victor and Sherlock was most definitely appealing.

He looked at Sherlock, who stood near the door, his posture perfect as he waited for John’s response. He eyes were bright and hopeful, and John tried to imagine him as he must’ve been last night, mid-grapple with Victor, out of breath and flush with effort, giving as good as he got. The image had flashed in and out of his head since dinner, punctuating Sherlock’s words, emphasizing Victor’s every lazy stretch and muscled movement…

Yes, prison would make a most excellent cockblock.

“You’re right,” John nodded, brusquely, “well worth our time.”

“Brilliant, John,” Sherlock exclaimed, bounding out of the room. “This is going to be fun!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

***** 

Downstairs, Sherlock shared the news and Victor was pleased (although John read his expression as “smug”). There was a sense that the evening’s “business” had now concluded, and now it was time for socializing and catching up. Sherlock showed Victor a book on poisons that he’d recently bought, shared with him a rare variety of bee that he’d acquired (dead, but still a curiosity), and explained his experiments with him in detail, the two men clambering around the kitchen table like kids. 

“…fucking hell, Sherlock, where’d you get an actual _human_ _head_ to experiment with?”

“There’s a girl at the morgue…”

“There always is with you, isn’t there?”

“It’s not my fault they’re interested…”

Victor picked up one of Sherlock’s beloved mold spores. “How long did you leave this one?”

“23—no, 24 weeks now.”

“Nice.”

John, left adrift in the sitting room, moved to the kitchen doorway.  “Victor, are you still ‘experimenting’”? I heard you were a kind of a scientist, once?” 

Victor looked up, with a confident smile. “Is that your subtle way of asking if I still make drugs, John?”

John lifted his chin. “Yes, actually.”

“Why? Looking to make a purchase?”

“Me? Wha?” John’s mouth had become a grim line. “No, I—“

Sherlock intervened. “John’s just being protective.”

“Ah. So he knows about all that?” Sherlock nodded confirmation. “Don’t worry, Johnny,” Victor said, with a reassuring glance. “I wouldn’t do that to him.” He placed an arm around the Doctor and walked with him back into the sitting room. “Confidentially, I’m the one that got him off the hard stuff years ago. Tied him to my radiator and left him buckets, just like in the movie. Disgusting, but effective.”

John raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine Sherlock…”

“Ah, but I can, John. In fact,” Victor clapped him on the shoulder and fished in his front pocket for smokes. “I could imagine worse. But, it had to be done -- he was eating up my profits and had become no fun at all…”

“I never…I mean…I didn’t know.” said John.

“Why would you? Of course, he was an incredible shit about it.” Victor grinned. “And the whining? Like you would not believe…”

“I _was_ going through withdrawal, for god’s sake. You act like it was some sort of head cold.” Sherlock gave Victor a two-handed shove, for emphasis. Victor returned it in kind, with a laugh.

John watched with curiosity. He wasn’t used to seeing Sherlock go out of his way to touch anyone, much less see anyone touch him. “So, what happened with the two of you?”

“Pardon?”

“At the hotel yesterday afternoon. You weren’t like this, then. Sherlock told you to fuck off, and you threatened to out him in front of me and Lestrade -- did it with a smile on your face.”

Victor looked to John and then to Sherlock, who nodded his permission. “Our, uh, friendship is a little difficult.”

“Clearly.”

“Why aren’t you asking Sherlock this question?”

“I did, but he told me to ask you.”

“Interesting.” Victor took a long pull from his beer. There was a sudden shift in his tone, a locking of eyes, a narrowing of focus. “And do you always do what he tells you to do, John?”

An unexpected and frankly, unwelcome frisson shot up John’s spine.  It felt as if the floor had fallen out from beneath him, and he looked to Sherlock for support, but Sherlock wasn’t there -- he’d gone into the kitchen.

Before John could respond, though, the moment ended. Victor abruptly dropped the tone and the eye contact with a smile and a knowing wink, and carried on with his story.

“When we last saw each other, Sherlock and I didn’t leave things the way we should. I’d made the decision to move back to the states…”

“A decision I was not privy to until, what? Three days before you left?” Sherlock entered with a bottle of red wine. Victor demurred the wine, but continued the story as Sherlock poured for himself and John.

“To be fair, it’s not like I had a choice, did I, Sherlock? The police were breathing down my neck and the entire operation – not to mention my freedom – was hanging by a thread, so I had to leave the country.”

Sherlock was annoyed. “You’ve left out the key part.”

“I was just getting to it, patience.”

“He didn’t go alone.” Sherlock beat him to it.

Victor let out an exasperated sigh. “I was just getting to it!” He lit a cigarette and handed it to Sherlock, a familiar and automatic gesture, it seemed to John -- and then lit a second for himself. “Oh, I’m sorry. John, do you…”

John shook his head. “No thanks.” He bit his tongue as he watched Sherlock smoke, and hoped, silently, that he wasn’t wearing any patches.

“Right. You _are_ a doctor…” Victor put the cigarettes back in his pocket and continued his story. “So, I left for the states, but what really pissed Sherlock off was the fact that I took Alex with me. “ He turned to Sherlock. “Does he know about Alexander?”

“He didn’t know about you until yesterday, he’s not going to know about Alex.”

“For the record, I saw Alex first, met him at a party, introduced him to Sherlock, in fact, so really I do think I had the initial claim.”

“Initial claim because you saw him first? Fucking hell…” Sherlock replied, and turned to John. “Without going into any unnecessary or embarrassing detail, John, Alex was my submissive. He was mine for a year and then Victor stole him and took him to America.”

“I already told you, it wasn’t my fault. Blame the police, I had to leave!”

“But you didn’t have to take him with you, did you?”

John marveled at their conversation. 24 hours before, he’d felt guilty about involving Sherlock in his D/s _fantasies_ , and here the man was glibly arguing with another Dom about a submissive he’d once owned. This whole thing was unreal…

“Whatever happened to Alex?” John asked.

Victor shrugged. “We got to the states and he fell in love with the idea of moving to California, of all places. I preferred New York, so he left. Haven’t heard from him since. I told Sherlock last night, I honestly think he just left England with me for the free plane ticket.”

Sherlock sighed, and raised his glass to Victor’s. “Screwed us both over, there’s odd comfort in that.” They touched glasses and drank.

Sherlock turned back to John. “I never knew what happened with Alex in America – “

“Because you’ve been giving me the silent treatment for the last two years!“

“…and that’s why I was still angry with Victor when I saw him at the hotel.”

“Well, why was Victor angry with you, then? Because Alex didn’t stay?”

“Nah,” started Victor. “I was mad because it was clear from the panic in Sherlock’s eyes when he saw me yesterday that he still hadn’t come out of the closet.”

John quirked an eyebrow. “Closet? You mean, ah, as gay?”

“No, I meant as a Dom. He keeps his kink all locked down, private. I mean, I get it, but at some point it’s not healthy to keep secrets from the people you care about. I mean, shit, you live with him and you had no idea…”

“Well, it’s not like tha-“ John started, but was cut off by Sherlock.

“Jesus, Victor, give it a rest. No one wants to know about my sex life, including me. The more unsaid, the better. People already think I’m a freak.” Sherlock poured himself another glass of wine. “For the record, and just so we can put this discussion to rest, I’m not technically gay, John. I’m bi.” He explained, “Just like you.”

 _Just like you…_ the words were so simple, but coming from Sherlock’s mouth, John was stunned, and hardly knew how to respond. How long had he known? _How_ had he known? John had only ever brought women to the flat and he’d never mentioned anything about men to Sherlock, he--

"John, it’s okay.” Sherlock interrupted his thoughts. “You know my methods:  I see things that other people don’t.  Nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried,” said John. “I just…didn’t realize that you knew. It’s not a secret.”

“Good for you, John!” Victor held up his glass for another toast, this time with John. “You see, Sherlock, that’s a healthy attitude.”

John felt dazed. He could blame it on the beer or the wine, but the whole day suddenly came crashing down on him – from waking to see Sherlock’s bruises to the conversation at dinner, to Victor’s visit, he felt like he’d been riding a wide pendulum of emotions that kept swinging from one extreme to another, and John felt more than ready to exit the ride for the night.

And so, he said his goodnights, and went up to his room. In bed, with the lights out, he could hear the hum of their conversation continuing downstairs, and he was reminded of the feeling he had as a child, when his parents would invite their friends over for cards and the sounds of their voices would lull him to sleep.

He closed his eyes. Victor Trevor was a potential murderer who had had single-handedly and successfully, gotten Sherlock off drugs. Asexual Sherlock was really a bisexual Dom - and apparently he was well aware of John’s orientation, to boot. As John drifted off, he wondered what new revelations might come tomorrow and what else Sherlock might know…

 

*****

The clock on the bedside blinked 03:23 when John Watson woke. Dreams again. They’d been coming less frequently now, the yellow landscapes, the shouting soldiers, the sand littered with blood and shell fragments. The night sweats had all but stopped, and even his shallow understanding of the Arabic language was dissolving quickly into the ether. The desert was gone. London was the here and now, with its biscuits and warm beds and now, with Sherlock, cases and crime scenes.

He willed himself to go back to sleep. Sherlock would no doubt be up early to start in earnest on the new case, and he’d need all his energy to keep up with another mad, manic pursuit. And John would likely have gotten back to sleep, if it weren’t for the general layout of 221B’s bedrooms, the specific placement of the building’s air registers or the fact that someone (Sherlock? Victor?) was, apparently, an absolute _screamer_ in bed.

The walls shuddered. Neighborhood dogs howled in protest. Mrs. Hudson would most definitely have something to say in the morning, thought John, and he realized that she’d probably assume it was him. Fanfuckingtastic…

Sleep was right out. He tried putting his blankets on top of his head, putting pillows over his ears, and even routed out the noise machine Harry had bought him Christmas before last, but “ _Evening Thunderstorm_ ”, “ _River Stream_ ” and “ _Waterfall_ ” were no match for the sounds coming from below.

First, John was annoyed.

Then, his mind began to drift…

…to what might be the root of the groans and growls, to what pervy delights were taking place no more than twelve feet below John’s bed, through floor and insulation and wood framing, through plaster and air, eventually reaching skin and tongue and teeth and wetness and things that stretch and slap, and lavish and lick and ohhh, yess, fuck them both, John was hard again and stroking himself in spite of the time and his tiredness and that fucking waterfall.

Of course, as loud as they were, he couldn’t quite hear enough to understand exactly what was happening.

And just like that, he was overcome with a sudden and desperate need for a nice cup of tea…

*****

 

John padded down the stairs in his bare feet, wearing pajama bottoms and facing the very strong realization that for the second time in two days, he was making tea under primarily false pretenses.

_Cup of tea, innocent as kittens, kettle on stove, lowest setting possible, use the one with the quietest whistle, done!_

The sounds were louder here, close to the kitchen doorway, bordering the hallway that led to Sherlock’s room, the hallway he’d run away from not 24 hours ago. There was a marked moan and a small laugh and a rumble and oh, that, _that_ was Sherlock, he’d have known that resonance anywhere.

John’s feet edged into the hall, bolder in the dark, moving closer to the source of the noise: the room at the end of the hall. He could hear Victor clearly, the American’s voice distinct, a low, lazy cowboy sound, cajoling and coercing his subject, his “Rabbit”, who responded with a series of long, steady moans, moans low and heartbreaking, and filthy, too, Jesus. John’s ear was very nearly up against the door, and he felt hypnotized by the sound. His breathing had become ragged, he was visibly hard but he was too paralyzed to actually touch himself, for fear of disrupting the scene on the other side of the door, this door, the one that seemed to reverberate with Sherlock’s mounting cries, and then there was a loud bang inside which made John jump, knocking his knee against the wall, and suddenly the door was opening and Victor was there, naked and covered in sweat, and wearing a single rubber glove. He stared at him, curiously.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

John stepped back like a shot. “I…uh…just making tea, ah, going to bed. Sorry.”

Over Victor’s shoulder, John could see that Sherlock had fallen out of bed, but before he could see or talk to John, Victor stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door to.

“Enjoy the show?”

“I am sorry, Victor, I heard noises and…”

Victor took a slow, sweeping look at John, his sleepy eyes taking in the heightened respiration, the tented pajamas and the bright red blush that had spread to his chest and was visible even under his tanned skin.

“Were you concerned for our safety, Doctor? Or are you just a nosy little fucker who likes to listen?”

Christ, thought John, this can’t be happening. “Look, it was just a mistake, alright? Let’s just forget it.”

“You won’t forget.” Victor spoke low, and stepped towards him, invading his personal space without touching him.  “You’ll be reliving this scene for quite some time, upstairs, in the dark, wondering what the fuck I used the glove for. You should be _ashamed_ , John…”

John stammered, hearing the punch Victor had given the word.  This was not what ( _no, who_ ) he wanted, not Victor with his swagger and his cheap clothes and, oh, yeah, the fact that there was a very real chance that he shot a woman in the sodding head.

Fuck me, though, if every word this criminal said wasn’t going straight to his cock…

“Please…don’t tell Sherlock.” John asked.

“Careful John, begging is my favorite…” Victor teased. “It _is_ a shame that Sherlock isn’t seeing this, though, how hard you are. “ said Victor, advancing forward but still not touching. “And how you were practically drooling, eyes blown out, standing with your ear to the door, you filthy son of a bitch.” He stepped back. “Of course, there’s always the chance that I’ve completely misjudged you, in which case,” he said, opening the door, “You wanna finish Rabbit off for me, instead?”

There were no words. John worked his jaw wordlessly until Victor laughed, leaned in and kissed his forehead, loudly.

“Goodnight, John.” He said, and disappeared into Sherlock’s room.

It was about that time that John’s tea kettle finally began to boil.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***End-Note Extra***
> 
> \- The Disney fish movie is, of course, "Finding Nemo".
> 
> \- The "buckets" movie was "Trainspotting"
> 
> \- Finally, if the end of this chapter felt familiar, it's because it's an awkward, wordy homage to the simple eloquence of this scene from "Fight Club":
> 
> ***************  
> Jack walks, HEARS Marla SCREAM in orgasm. He reaches the  
> landing. Tyler's door is ajar. Jack peeks in...
> 
> Marla's legs are sprawled on the bed. The door PUSHES OPEN  
> WIDER -- Tyler, naked, stands CLOSE TO CAMERA.
> 
> TYLER  
> What are you doing?
> 
> Jack steps back.
> 
> JACK  
> I... uh... just going to bed.
> 
> Tyler scratches his head, wears a RUBBER GLOVE.
> 
> TYLER  
> You want to finish her off?
> 
> JACK  
> Uh... nah...
> 
> Jack continues toward his room.  
> ***************
> 
> Thanks for reading, you decadent little vixens!  
> vex.


	6. "Just That Kind of Night"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...wherein everyone gets theirs!

 

Victor turned the lock on Sherlock’s door with a snap.

“John okay?”

“Yeah, he’s making ‘tea’.”  Victor stripped off the rubber glove, freeing his hand to rouse himself back to full attention.

“He’s making tea? At half past three in the morning?”

“Seems _somebody_ woke him up…” Victor slid into bed beside Sherlock, mouth searching out his neck.

“Is he angry?”

“John? Hardly. He’s…easy.” Victor drew out the last word for emphasis while his fingers gripped Sherlock tightly between the legs, moving down to stray along the curve of his arse. Sherlock purred, letting his legs fall open ever wider, melting into Victor’s hand.

He was still stretched and slick from earlier and Victor’s fingers found their way inside again, first one, then a second, curling in at just the precise spot, forcing a little gasp out of Sherlock.

If he let himself, Sherlock thought, he’d be content to mindlessly rut against Victor’s talented, twisting fingers until he came – but while that was certainly efficient, tonight, he wanted more: he wanted Victor to work for it. Sherlock nipped at the blond’s lower lip.

“Show me what that mouth can do,” Sherlock said, with a dirty curl of his own lips. Victor nodded, and his body slipped down, tongue laving Sherlock’s chest, his nipples, his belly, teasing his navel and finally lingering just above his cock. Sherlock twisted his hips away with a wicked little smirk, and Victor smiled at the small denial, recalculating his course. If Sherlock wanted improv, he thought, that’s precisely what he’d get…

He grasped Sherlock’s hips and turned him onto his stomach, placing a pillow beneath him. The position forced the man’s back into a deep arch, and Victor ran an appreciative hand along his strong shoulders, that smooth skin, and down those parted legs, gorgeous as fuck.  He doubled back, retracing that course with his mouth, tasting the nape of Sherlock’s neck, the small of his back, the length of his thighs and the backs of his knees. Then, straddling his legs, Victor pulled the cheeks of Sherlock’s arse wide, enjoying the hitch of his breath as cold air hit sensitive skin.

He flattened his tongue and drew an agonizingly long, slow, wet stripe along Sherlock’s cleft, and Sherlock groaned in response. He swiveled his hips to meet Victor’s tongue when it returned, the lewd, warm-wet feel of the saliva against his skin intoxicating. Sherlock leaned into the movement of the tongue, attempting to take control and edge it toward the circumference of his stretched hole, which spasmed in anticipation.

Victor followed his lead, swirling his tongue around the widened ring, his saliva mixing with the lube, making the entrance slick and sloppy, and so very goddamn fuckable. He nosed the entrance, and tilted his head to lap and then suck, and when he sucked, Sherlock shuddered. This had been Sherlock’s game tonight, to make Victor work for it, but somehow, Victor managed to turn the seemingly subservient act of rimming into _his_ game. He became the predator, looking for all the world as if he were taking great, vicious bites out of Sherlock’s arsehole. In reality, it was nothing but the gentle slip-slide of Victor’s tongue and the persistent vacuum of his mouth that worked behind the rise of Sherlock’s cheeks, but that didn’t make Sherlock feel any less like prey. It was the feel of his hands, the sounds that he made, his cock-sure attitude and swagger, even as he bent with his mouth to another man’s ass -  this was Victor’s gift, this ability to tear someone down with a single gesture, and Sherlock envied it, he imitated it, and on nights like these, he would give in to it, because fuck, who cares who’s on top when this feels so goddamn good?

He closed his eyes, and Victor felt Sherlock’s resistance evaporate. He wanted to take him just then, but he didn’t, choosing instead to make his tongue taut and hard to stab into that greedy, gaping little hole. Sherlock growled, head collapsing into the mattress as Victor tongue-fucked him, shallow but wide, mean and darting. Sherlock’s hands clenched the sheets, and he began to grind into the pillow below.

Victor liked seeing Sherlock like this. Then again, to be fair, Victor liked seeing anyone like this, all open and wanting and half-out of their mind. He wondered, idly, how John might look in that same position. What noises would Sherlock’s little soldier make, and how long it would take for Victor to render him completely undone? After the scene in the hallway, he couldn’t imagine it taking long at all, but he still stroked his cock at the thought, even as his mouth and tongue continued to violate Sherlock’s open arse.

Sherlock turned and grabbed him by the neck, pulling Victor’s mouth up to his and kissed him, tongue tasting himself. “I need you…” he whispered, more of a statement than a demand.

“I know,” Victor drawled, and pushed him to the mattress once more, putting Sherlock’s arse high in the air. He kicked his legs apart and edged his own body between them. Sherlock heard the crisp, crinkly sound of a condom packet opening, followed by the smart slap of lube against latex. Victor wiped his hand against Sherlock’s arse, leaving it even wetter with lube, and parted his cheeks once more.

He pressed into him, easy at first, then bearing down past resistant muscle, Sherlock’s grunts muffled by his position. Victor found his pace, thrusting deep, the action fluid, practiced and precise. He reached underneath Sherlock and grasped his cock, the movement plunging him even deeper inside the man, bringing their bodies closer together. Victor’s hand stroked Sherlock’s length against the mattress, and it instantly reminded Sherlock of the way he used to masturbate when he was 14, his face down and cock rubbing endlessly into the duvet. Victor, for his part, was enjoying the way his attentions were making Sherlock thrash beneath him,

“Racing to the finish, Rabbit?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it…” Sherlock gasped. “Age before…beauty.”

“Tempting, but I…oh, fuck,” Victor moaned abruptly, convulsing as Sherlock clasped and clenched his inner muscles, working Victor on the upstroke. “Goddamn, you are a talented trick, Sherlock Holmes…”

Sherlock snapped his hips in response, but his self-satisfaction was short-lived, as Victor redoubled his efforts on Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock soon felt his own need rising at even pace with Victor’s. His arse was full and his shaft was leaking onto Victor’s hand. By the rasp of Victor’s breath in his ear, Sherlock knew it wouldn’t be long for either of them.

“Fine,” he struggled. “Let’s call it a draw.”

Victor moaned. “Deal…oh, motherfuck…” he said, under his breath, increasing his speed, the movement rougher, frenzied, desperate.

Sherlock bucked and shuddered again, gritting, “Cum with me…” before spending into his sheets and onto Victor’s hand. His ejaculation set off a series of involuntary contractions inside that sent Victor completely over the edge.

“Son of a BITCH…” he barked, before collapsing on top of Sherlock, and the two of them lay there for quite a while, catching their breath.

“Oh, fuck me, I have missed you, Victor.” Sherlock intoned with no small amount of self-satisfaction.

“Right back atcha, Rabbit.” He rolled over onto his side. “Now - see how one moment can flip a scene completely?”

Sherlock nodded. “That fucking mouth…”

“But it wasn’t my mouth, that’s what I’m saying.” Victor reached for his cigarettes, and lit one for Sherlock, then one for himself. “It was the way your mind _pictured_ what was happening. That’s what took you down.”

“How'd you know what I was picturing in my head?”

“How'd you know that I went to Camden Market earlier today? You can deduce my actions based on the mud on my shoes, yeah, but mostly because you know me. You know my habits and can make educated guesses as to how I’m gonna react to certain stimuli.” He shifted position. “The image of me holding you wide and devouring your ass is forceful and depending on who you are, it might bring to mind anything from lions gutting gazelles in the African veldt to, I don’t know, Eve charging face-first into that goddamn apple – but it doesn’t really matter what the image is, so long as it’s read in the spirit it's delivered: as an aggressive, impulsive, selfish and vicious action.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’m painfully out of practice.”

“Clubs haven’t been giving you much of a challenge, I’m guessing?”

Sherlock grumbled. “Over-eager subs satisfied with the minimum of effort and a modicum of discipline. Boring. I stopped altogether in the last year.”

Victor raised an eyebrow. “Stopped going to clubs altogether, or stopped playing altogether?”

Sherlock stood up, embarrassed, and grabbed a towel for clean-up. “Both.”

Victor stared. “No wonder you practically vibrated that day at the hotel.”

“It’s not easy, Victor,” Sherlock complained. “It takes time and effort to find the right partner, you know that. I don’t have that kind of time.”

“Right. Cases.”

“Exactly! And experiments.”

“Too bad there’s not anyone you already know -- you know, someone that’s already in your circle that might be interested…”

“My circle?” Sherlock gave a rueful laugh. “My circle consists of Mrs. Hudson, a handful of police officers, Molly at the morgue, my brother and my bloody flatmate, Not a lot of options there.”

“No, you’re right about that.” Victor thought for a moment. “But you never know. Maybe the best thing to do is continue your education. I’ve been a shitty mentor. Even before I left England, your education suffered.”

Sherlock pulled on a t-shirt and his pajama bottoms. “Should I feel insulted by that?”

Victor shook his head. “No, man, it’s all on me. I’m thinking now that our lessons back in the day may have focused too squarely on the physical. What you need is a refresher course.”

Sherlock looked at him skeptically. “A refresher course in what?”

“Humiliation,” he explained, “mental domination, the mindfuck. I always figured your natural condescension would see you through, but Bunny, there’s always room for improvement.”

Sherlock flopped back on the bed. “If it means I get to fuck with your head, I’m all for it.”

Victor pushed him away with a laugh. “First, I fuck with yours,” he said, “then, we’ll see…”

*****

 

After his encounter with Victor in Sherlock’s hallway, John was damned if he was going to go upstairs and go back to bed, damned if he would permit himself to wank to that fucker’s words, and bloody well damned if he was going to muse on the finer points of that goddamned rubber glove.

He went up to his room, grabbed his phone and began thumbing through the small collection of numbers in his contacts list. Sarah was off-limits. Emily clearly wasn’t interested. Jun wasn’t the kind of girl you called in the middle of the night…

…but then there was Bridget. His finger stopped scrolling.

Bridget was an old friend, from back before he was deployed. They’d had a few “friends with benefits” encounters, but romantically, the timing had just never been right. She was this sexy tomboy with a whiskey voice and a wicked sense of humor who wasn’t afraid to call people out on their shite – and the kicker? She was a bartender, so might very well be up at close to four in the morning on a Saturday night. He composed the message in his mind before the text box even opened:

**Care to buy a soldier a drink? –j**

He stared at his phone. He didn’t really expect her to reply. She was probably sleeping. Maybe she worked a 9-5 now, or had gotten married. She certainly wouldn’t be interested in some late-nigh—

**Doc! You’re back? Brilliant! –Bridge**

John smiled to himself, and put on his jacket. Within ten minutes, he’d bellied up to her bar, tossed back a free tequila shot and was flirting shamelessly with pretty Bridget, who hadn’t changed a bit since he’d left.

“Yes I have,” she argued, counting the changes on her fingers. “I quit my old job and took this one, I started jogging and I’ve found seven gray hairs since you last saw me, _seven_! Oh, and I adopted a stupid mutt named Clyde, who you will love in spite of the fact that he’s a little shit.”

John perked. “Oh I will? And when do you propose I meet this Clyde?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Doc,” she sassed. “Closing time’s in twenty minutes, and unless I’m very much mistaken, you’re a soldier in need of more than a drink.”

God save the Queen, thought John, a thought he echoed twenty minutes later, when he found out that Bridget was actually the closer at the bar that night, and then again thirty minutes later when he found himself behind the bar with her, snogging against the cooler door.

Her lips were soft against his, breasts nestling beneath her tight white shirt, braless now, after John had bet her that she couldn’t take off her bra without removing her shirt first. Of course she could, and of course John knew it before he even made the bet, but acknowledging that fact would’ve made John an incredibly stupid man. He nuzzled against her, running his hands through her short, spiky blonde hair. Her hands traced the muscles in his back, down to his hips, and her fingers latched onto his belt loops, pulling him closer. He kissed her harder, tongues teasing one another as he pressed his right knee, pointedly, between her thighs. Her breath caught in her throat as his hands reached up to her shirt buttons, buttons he slowly and carefully removed from their buttonholes, watching her grow impatient, feeling her anticipation, knowing that feeling quite well.

He was stiff. His cock had been straining against the material of his jeans since before the bar closed, since before he’d even arrived at the bar, if he were honest with himself, since…

_(since Victor)_

But he wasn’t going to think about that…

_(…nevermind that Bridge happened to be blonde, like Victor,  and could be a bit bossy, at times…)_

 …but she wasn’t a Domme and a lot of people were blonde, for goodness sake and oh, fuck, her hand was running along his zipper and clutched him through the heavy denim fabric. He swallowed hard, and returned the favor in kind, running his hand up the seam of her jeans, popping the button at the top with a naughty grin.

She winked. “What about Clyde?”

“Fuck Clyde. I’ll meet him another time.”

He unzipped her tight jeans and pulled them down to her thighs, his hands cupping her sex through her small, black panties. She was wet, and when he edged a finger underneath that fabric, she made a soft noise in the back of her throat, holding her breath until his finger made contact with her clit. He pulsed against it with his hand while kissing a line down her throat to her chest, her blouse still on, but open, her breasts exposed. His mouth moved to them, licking and sucking first one nipple and then the other. Once upon a time, he remembered, she’d told him that she’d always felt her breasts were too small - “Not exactly Page Three material, John!”, she’d said - and ever since, anytime they’d gotten together, he’d made a special point of giving them the attention they deserved.

His hands became more demanding, his fingernail flicking against her clit, making her gasp and squirm beneath him. He leaned in to her ear, “Hang on,” he said, and she complied, wrapping an arm around his neck and a leg around his waist. He lifted her up, turned her around and placed her on top of the bar. John looked up at her with a smile, and then started with her shoes. He pulled them off, stroking her feet as he did, delivering little kisses to each of her toes. He moved on to her jeans, removing them completely, gently pulling them down from her thighs, first one leg and then the other, taking time out to kiss her knees and stroke her calves. Her panties followed soon after, joining her jeans in a heap on the floor and leaving her naked but for her shirt, which still hung loose and open around her shoulders. John pulled her head down to his, and kissed her before cueing her to lie down, which she did, knees bent, toes curled around the edge, her back along the length of the bar. The height of the bar placed her sex just below John’s chest, excellent. He positioned himself between her bent legs and grabbed her hips, pulling her arse right up to the bar’s edge.

She moaned when his tongue first touched her, softly at first, teasing the folds of flesh as it opened, his lips meeting hers, his hands helping to expose her clit, which grew even more under his tongue. She shivered when he grazed a tooth along its edge, but she didn’t begin to keen in earnest until he began to suck, pulling it as much as he could, into the warmth of his mouth, rolling it against his lips and lapping at the whole of her cunt when the sensation became too much. He slipped a finger inside, marveling at her wetness, watching it run down the curve of her arse. She groaned, and arched her back before he removed his finger and replaced it with his tongue, now made stiff for flicking, for fucking, for making her cry out, only not so softly any more, no sir. Her hips circled, begging for sensation, and John’s cock ached for a touch, but he wanted to make her cum first, so he could properly fuck her without any “I got mine” guilt later. 

“Doc,” she whimpered, and his hands anchored beneath her, a cheek in each hand, while his mouth worked. In this position, his thumbs could keep her open, and occasionally, they could also “accidentally” brush against the very edge of her arsehole. Bridge and he had never fucked that way, but he’d found that even girls who didn’t like anal liked the tease of it – it made their pulse race, and Bridge was definitely one of those girls.

“Fuck, that’s so good…” she groaned, bucking beneath his mouth. His pace increased, and so did her moans, shallow little breaths, as she got closer. “Don’t stop, god, Doc, don’t…oh, right there…”

And so John _didn’t_ stop and he _did_ stay there (because, after all, he’s quite good at doing what he’s told) and when she came, she came with his mouth wrapped around her, with his thumbs pressing near the entrance of her arsehole and with her legs clutching John’s body close to her, rocking against him.

While she recovered, John dragged one of the high-backed barstools around to where he’d been standing and kicked it in place. He slid into the chair and stroked himself through his clothes until Bridget sat up.

“Jesus, Doc, that was stellar…” She moved forward, dangling her legs over the edge of the bar, to face him. “You could teach a class, or write a book. It would be a community service, really.” She pulled him in for a kiss and looked down in his lap with a smile, watching him touch himself. “They might even give you a knighthood,” she said, reaching her hand down to his. “Sir… John…Watson…” And with each word, her hand worked, first popping open the button on his jeans, then pulling down his zip, and finally pulling out his gorgeously hard cock, which bobbed and leaked in anticipation. She licked her palm and stroked it firmly and John felt his spine gave way. It had been so long since his cock had felt the touch of anyone other than himself - since before he’d met Sherlock, anyway – and it was just perfect, but before it became too perfect, her reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew the inevitable foil packet.

“You came prepared,” she murmured. “Good boy,” and John hoped his immediate and automatic flush at those words would go unnoticed, or else be easily explained by the state of his cock. He busied himself with the condom.

Bridget knew about the men, but not about the BDSM. Like Sherlock, John just felt that the last bit was entirely his business, to share or not to share however he liked.  And with Bridge, it just wasn’t like that.

“Come here, you,” he said, playfully, and pulled her into his lap. She straddled him, and leaned in for a kiss, slowly rocking against him and edging her clit along the head of his cock. John closed his eyes and thanked god for the bit of plastic between them, or else it would’ve been all over. She reared up, and he gripped his cock firmly, angling it for her as she slowly brought herself down on top of him. She was riding him, and he was gripping her waist and for John, it was all bliss for the first time in a very long time.

*****

 

John emerged from the bar at dawn, his eyes blinking against the bright outdoors, lips swollen and hair mussed, wearing last night’s clothes and Bridget’s lipstick on his collar. He flagged a cab and rode all the way to 221B with a smile on his face.

When they arrived at Baker Street, he tipped the driver a little more generously than he usually would, and stopped in at Speedy’s to buy coffee. He bought a tall one for himself and a second one for Sherlock – and then, just for the hell of it, bought a third one for fucking Victor. It was just that kind of morning, because it had been just that kind of night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***End-Note Extra***
> 
> I just thought you'd all be amused by the fact that I'm a straight, married woman who's now read so much slash that I actually found it somewhat difficult to write the hetero sex in this chapter.
> 
> (Well-played, internets!) 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the porn -- oh, and as always, thanks for all the kudos and comments, they make me happier than John the morning after!  
> vex.


	7. "Catch Me If You Can"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, the investigation begins in earnest!
> 
> (Only the tiniest bit of sexytimes, the boys needed their rest...)

John took the stairs two at a time, being careful not to spill the coffee. He unlocked the door to 221B, and entered talking.

He wasn’t expecting his flatmate to be at the door when he opened it.

“Oh, sorry, I…” John apologized, though his expression quickly shifted to exasperation when he realized he’d fallen under Sherlock’s scrutiny. “What?”

Sherlock finished his sweeping glance with a smirk and a satisfied nod. “Have a nice shag? A gentleman would’ve taken the lady home, I think, but sex in a bar -- oh no, _on_ a bar -- has its place, I suppose, especially with an old friend. She certainly seems to have enjoyed it, at any rate. Cheers for the coffee.”

He lifted one of the cups from the holder in John’s hand and carried on into the kitchen, leaving John in the doorway, stammering.

“N-now hold on,” He trailed him into the kitchen. “I know you’re brilliant, but there’s no way that even you could tell all that from staring at me for what? Less than five seconds!”

 “Of course he could,” said Victor, lounging in one of the kitchen chairs with his boots on the table, eating toast with jam. “Now, whether he _should_ or not is another story. Coffee? Thanks, Johnny…”

John’s mind raced. Of course Victor was still here – he should have anticipated that, and he flushed red at what Victor might’ve said to Sherlock, what he _hoped_ he hadn’t told Sherlock. Fuck…

“Why shouldn’t I? I’m just making observations, not hacking his phone.” Sherlock said. He handed John a warm piece of toast, which he accepted warily, watching Sherlock for any possible signs of knowing about last night.

“So, about last night,” Sherlock started and John’s heart very nearly stopped until he realized that the man was just gearing up to detail his deductions. “You left the flat in the middle of the night and it’s only just turned seven, which doesn’t leave enough time to meet, court and thoroughly bed a woman, not even for ‘Three Continents Watson’, so it must’ve been someone you already knew, and someone from before your deployment, since you haven’t, to the best of my knowledge, had sex with anyone other than yourself since moving into the flat….”

John turned crimson. “Wow, can we just—“

But Sherlock continued, undeterred. “Your shirt smells of tequila and your hands smell of lime, so you were in a bar. Your hair, your wrinkled clothing and the state of your lips…”

_(Dear god, Sherlock Holmes is deducing my lips…)_

“…all show you’ve been shagging. In a bed? No, because after shagging a friend – a female friend, judging by the lipstick that’s literally on your collar –  you would’ve slept in. Also, logistics tells us you wouldn’t have had enough travel time for going back to her flat or to visit a hotel, unless it was immediately nearby, and you wouldn’t waste money on a hotel for just a few hours, now would you? Most damning, though, are the residual mahogany stains on your knees. You see, most establishments polyurethane the tops of bars, to protect them, to make them easier to clean, but the undersides of them rarely get such treatment because no one cares if the stain rubs off there. After all, you can’t see it, and it’s not every patron that hooks their knees to the underside of it while having a go.”

John looked down at his pants and did, in fact, see the faintest of rub marks matching the color of the bar, on top on his knees. “Incredible, as always, but you forgot to explain the last bit.”

“What bit?”

John was suddenly shy. “About the girl, um, enjoying herself.”

“That one was easiest of all,” Sherlock winked, “Your sunny disposition and the generous streak that inspired you to buy us all coffee.”

“That only shows that I enjoyed myself, doesn’t prove anything about her!” John protested.

“John,” Sherlock leaned forward, looked him earnestly in the eyes, and John melted a bit. “You are the most selfless person I know. If you’d failed to satisfy her, and especially if you’d gotten off, you wouldn’t feel the need to celebrate with sugary stimulants. You’d be up in your room, taking a shower and composing the first of a long series of apologetic e-mails.”

Uncanny. John looked away, shaking his head with a small smile. “Yeah, alright, ya bastard, go on…”

Sherlock Holmes really was a damned genius.

Said genius picked up his violin from the kitchen table and poked John in the ribs with its bow. ”Speaking of showers, I already said you smell like a bar. Get changed and meet me down here quickly. We’ve got work to do…”

Fifteen minutes later, John emerged from his bedroom, with a fresh change of clothes and damp hair. From below, he heard violin music and it was Mozart, which meant Sherlock was motivated and eager, which was good, but it also meant that if John didn’t stay alert, Sherlock might very well forget him at a crime scene again.

Victor intercepted John on the landing. For a brief moment, John wondered if Sherlock had ever left _him_ anywhere…

He approached him, cautiously. “Off, then?”

“Yeah. Got to see a man about a thing. Sherlock said to let myself out – he’s all wrapped up in Concerto No. 6.”

“5,” John corrected. “It’s Concerto No. 5.”

“That would’ve been my second guess.” Victor snarked. “But I bet you can’t name the second track on _The Battle of Los Angeles_ , so consider us even.”

“What do you want, Victor?”

“I want you to stop clenching your jaw long enough to talk to me.” Victor ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “You don’t like me much, do you, John?”

“No, I don’t.”

That’s a pity,” he said, “Because I like you. And Sherlock does, too, maybe more than that, he just doesn’t realize it yet.”

“Sherlock’s m-my flatmate...”

“..and he’s brilliant - but as observant as he is, sometimes he has trouble seeing things that are directly in front of him. You know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t like talking about Sherlock when he’s not present.” John pressed his lips closed, as if to put an end to the conversation.

Victor turned, and then paused at the top of those 17 steps, violin music still pouring out of 221B. “Look, I didn’t tell him anything about last night. Your secret, for what it’s worth, is safe with me.”

“I don’t have secrets,” said John defensively. “I just wouldn’t want Sherlock to get the wrong impression.”

“Just how many interpretations of an erect penis can there be, John?”

“Fuck you.”

“You say that now, but if push came to shove…”

“Don’t test me, Victor.”

“Oh, I think that’s _exactly_ what you want.”

Everything froze for a moment, and John felt the way he had at the hotel, when he hadn’t been able to tell if Sherlock and Victor were fighting or flirting.

There was a moment.

And then it was gone.

Victor reached into his coat pocket and held out a card.

“Look, you’re dying for me to be the villain here, but I’ll tell you what. Just to prove I really am a good guy, give this to Sherlock. Tell him it’s a gift, from me, a hint, and it’s the only one he’ll get.”

John accepted the card begrudgingly, and read it. “A strip club in Peckham?”

“And not the highest class of establishments, I’m afraid.”

He flipped the card over, to read the name on the front, “Who’s Louis Lloyd?”

“You’ll find out soon.” He turned and took two steps down the stairs, only to stop, once again, as if remembering something. “Oh, and, uh, John?”

“What now?”

“Your girl last night…”

John took a slow, calming breath. “Yes?”

“Just out of curiosity, what color was her hair?”

John responded automatically, and without hesitation: “Black, with curls.”

Victor laughed out loud. “You are a terrible liar. See you around.” And then, leaning in, he whispered “Catch me if you can, Johnny,” and headed out into the broad daylight.

*****

 

“I don’t care, John, it’s insulting. I don’t need him to give me a gift or a hint.” Sherlock pouted against the window of the taxi, flipping the card that Victor had given John incessantly in his hands. “I find my own clues!”

“Consider it a kindness. Now we won’t have to chase around London all morning just to find our way to…”

“…a fourth-tier strip club in Peckham. Won’t that be fun...” Sherlock punched at his phone, indignantly.

John smiled to himself, deeply enjoying Sherlock’s irritation with Victor. Instead of in-jokes, crop marks and shared cigarettes, Sherlock was back on track with a clue and a crime and John at his side, everything as it should be. As it had been, before Victor’s dismal return. 

The mysterious club in Peckham wouldn’t open for another six hours, so Sherlock and John spent that time doing actual investigative work. They reviewed the eyewitness accounts of the aftermath of the shooting in Lestrade’s office and looked over the statements made by the hotel manager and the night desk attendant. It all seemed very straightforward – there was a gunshot in the hall, Victor was the only witness to the actual murder itself, and by all accounts, the shooter left before the rest of the patrons dared to venture from their rooms.

“Did you see the thing about the cameras?” John asked, after they’d left The Met.

“The missing security cam footage?” Sherlock nodded. “Find the footage, find the killer.”

“Wouldn’t it be digital, though? I thought they all were these days.”

“Not at £25-a-night hotels like that one. VHS, old school. They had four tapes they’d record to. Set in LP mode, each tape could record up to six hours of low quality footage. Six hours times four tapes, 24 hours. And Tape #3, the one set to record noon to 6pm on the day of the shooting, that’s the one that’s missing.”

“Convenient , that.”

“Yes, isn’t it just?” Their next stop was in Islington, to pay a visit to Lily Wilson, the only daughter of the victim and the only family she’d left behind. On the way, their cab hit an ugly snarl of midday traffic, and it didn’t take long for the stops and starts and cycles of traffic lights to test Sherlock’s patience. He ran his hand along his thighs, frustrated, flexing his long fingers, and John couldn’t help but notice, watching them move out of the corner of his eye.

_“Traffic’s tedious, John.” Sherlock gave a self-satisfied stretch in the back of the taxi and leveled his eyes at him. “Entertain me.”_

_John blinked at him, not understanding, and Sherlock responded by blatantly stroking his erection. Realization dawned on, and then embarrassed John, who shot a panicked look at the cabbie._

_“Sherlock, what are you…no!” John pulled Sherlock’s hand away from his crotch and hissed softly. “Time and place--  and this is neither!”_

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and cleared his throat before responding at full volume. “Oh, I’m sorry, John. I was under the impression that you were a needy little cocksucker, ready to serve whenever and wherever I chose. Is that not correct?”_

_The cabbie quirked an eyebrow into the rearview mirror and John died a little inside. His cock, however, rallied at Sherlock’s words. Fucking hell…_

_“I’m sure our friend up front won’t mind.” Sherlock tapped the driver’s headrest. “You won’t mind if he sucks me off while we wait, will you? I can assure you, he’ll clean up any mess that might come along...”_

“John? Are you listening to me?”

Sherlock’s voice brought John back to reality, the reality where traffic was still stacked and Sherlock’s trousers remained zipped and buttoned.

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you thought a visit to Barts might be in order. To see what Molly might’ve turned up on the victim.”

“Melinda,” murmured John, still foggy from the fantasy. “The victim’s name was Melinda Wilson. Call her by name when we meet with the daughter. Anything else would be rude.”

“Point taken. And about Barts?”

“I can go to Barts.”

“Excellent, while you’re there, I’ll have time to press Victor for details about the club. Best to know what we’re walking into.”

John tried to quell the rising tide of jealousy, and valiantly resisted falling into a very different sort of fantasy, one that was more murderous than sexual. He had informed Sherlock what Victor had said in the landing that morning, his “catch me if you can” taunt a clear admission of guilt, to John at least. But Sherlock hadn’t seen it that way.

Sherlock couldn’t see past the game.

At least, that’s what John hoped was going on.

He swiveled on the bench seat to face Sherlock. “He’s important to you, I get that, you know.”

Sherlock’s face softened. “I do. And he is. Important, I mean.”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt. Or end up having to compromise yourself…”

“That’s not going to happen, John.” Sherlock scrubbed his face with his hands. “I was very clear about that.”

The cab just missed catching another green light, and halted at the crosswalk. John and Sherlock watched the pedestrians cross the street in front of them.

“You don’t,” John hesitated before pushing forward, “I mean, there’s no chance you could…it’s not serious, between you and him, is it?”

Sherlock made an exasperated face. “I’ve already told you, John – were not sexually compatible, outside of his…valuable instruction. He’s a criminal and not to be trusted and he bloody well lives in another country, doesn’t he?”

“Sherlock Holmes, do you love him?”

Sherlock looked down, and watched his own hands move along his thighs. “I love him like a brother.”

“A brother…you have sex with?”

“Well, now you’re quibbling…”

*****

 

Lily Wilson stood in her mother’s living room and poured tea into cups for Sherlock and John.

“I’m flattered that the police decided to bring you in,” she said, settling down into an armchair, “I mean, I’ve seen your name in the papers. But I am worried about what it means for my Mum’s case.”  

John reached for the cream. “All it means is that they want to find out who did this to Melinda. We’re just here to help.”

She was pretty, John noticed, but quite young, barely in her 20s. She was on break from the university to settle her mother’s estate. “Such as it is,” she said honestly. “Mum wasn’t the best with money. Frankly, outside of this house, there’s not a lot to settle.”

Sherlock drank from his cup. “Not a lot from your father, then?”

Lily shook her head. “When he disappeared, he really disappeared – and Fulvia certainly hasn’t parted with any of his money since the disappearance.”

“Fulvia?”

“Fulvia White. My step-monster. Not even, really. Dad married her after he divorced Mum, but they were only together for a year before he went away. Guess he couldn’t stand her any more than we could.”

“Must’ve been hard,” John said, “Not knowing where he was.”

She shrugged, a small gesture that spoke volumes.  “I was twelve when he left, I didn’t understand. But when I realized that even the adults didn’t understand, that’s when it got difficult.”

“What do you remember? About the disappearance?”

“Not much to tell. One night he was there and the next he wasn’t. Disappeared from Fulvia’s house in the middle of the night. She woke up and he wasn’t there and that was it.”

Sherlock leaned in. “And that’s when you stopped sleeping?”

“How did you--?”

“It’s not hard to imagine that when a child’s parent disappears into thin air one night that said child might develop a bit of a complicated relationship with sleeping.”

Sherlock stood up, and admired the photographs on the mantelpiece. “You know, you look like her. ”

“Like Mum?” Lily’s eyes misted. “You’re not the first to notice that. Always felt lucky.”

Sherlock lifted a photograph from the mantel and handed it to John. Smiling photo of Melinda, at just about Lily’s age. A candid party snap, taken with a Polaroid camera, the image long since gone green, lovingly framed in spite of its poor quality.  

“Do you see?”  Sherlock asked.

“Oh, quite lovely,” said John, eyes flickering over the photo before passing it back to Sherlock. “So, Lily, help me understand. Your Dad goes missing and there was an investigation?”

“Yeah. Years of it. Never found him, never found a body. Then last year, they ruled it Death in Absentia and it felt like it was all finally over.”

John sighed. “And now this.”

“Mr. Holmes, do you think that guy could’ve been right, that witness?” She asked. “It seems impossible to think that my Dad might really be out there, alive, somewhere.”

“Right now, I can think of at least 16 different ways he could’ve disappeared and remained hidden for that amount of time, so no, it’s not impossible,” Sherlock said, “and when you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

Sherlock stood up, the photograph of her mother still in his hand. “May I borrow this, just for a little while?”

“As long as I get it back, sure.”

“John, time to go.”

The Doctor stood and shook her hand. “Thanks so much for your time, Lily, and we’ll be in touch.”

Outside, another taxi, and Sherlock and John pulled the doors closed on the Islington interview.

“Poor thing, “ John clucked. “First her father, then her mother. Sweet girl, hope she gets through it.”

 “That girl is neither poor nor sweet, but she is good, John. Tricky,” Sherlock said with excitement, “and I do so love the tricky ones!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***End-Note Extra***
> 
> \- Mozart's Violin Concerto No. 5 can be heard [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aRItTPlifZo). 
> 
> \- The second track on Rage Against The Machine's album "The Battle of Los Angeles" is ["Guerilla Radio"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H0kJLW2EwMg). 
> 
> \- Full disclosure, the character of Fulvia is based on a Fulvia I once worked for at a now-defunct London nightclub (different last name, though). You haven't met her yet, but you can already tell it isn't likely to be the most flattering of portrayals, now is it?
> 
> Sorry for the delay in getting this week's chapter out on time! 
> 
> Stay tuned for more sexytimes next time (and with added MOLLY!)  
> vex.


	8. "Nobody's Sidekick"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea-time with Sherlock and John and Victor and Molly (but not all together and definitely not in that order)!

“Dominance is external.” Victor started, tearing at the bar mat with his fingertips, “It’s physical – you make someone do what you want, when you want and how you want it. But humiliation’s internal. It’s all about creating a specific emotion inside of the other person.”

“Right, but it’s the domination that causes it.”

“Yeah, but it’s just the means to an end. Domination is just the tool you use to humiliate. When you force someone to beg to cum, the humiliation’s not in the forcing, it’s in the begging. And just the begging, really. Even the orgasm’s beside the point.”

“Right, because without the need to cum…”

“…they wouldn’t feel the need to beg.”

“So even the cumming is just a means to an end… hmm, never thought of it quite that way…”

Tea-time near Soho, and Sherlock and Victor were holed up in the balcony at The 12 Bar Club, drinking anything but tea. What had started as a quick chat about the strip club had turned into a few more drinks and an impromptu lesson in humiliation. Sherlock knew it was still too early to head to Peckham, and John had just now made it to Bart’s, so he had time.

He and Victor were alone, but for a few busy barbacks and the musicians and technicians working soundcheck on stage below. Officially, the bar was closed, but that didn’t stop Victor and Sherlock from curling up in a corner. Victor knew Anton, the club’s owner, from way back -- he’d once caught Victor hand-delivering party favors to performers who really should have known better, and Anton had physically thrown him out of the club. Eventually, the two men had managed to develop a friendship, in spite of its rocky start, and Victor made a point of stopping in whenever he was in town.

12 Bar had been his place when he lived in London and when Sherlock fell into Victor’s circle, it became his place, too, although he hadn’t been as fond of the music as Victor had been. He had, however, very much appreciated the eager young lads and ladies who’d hung around, all smudged eyeliner and sweat-soaked hair, trousers loosened by spirits and skirts lifted in response to the inevitable driving bass beat. Even Victor admitted it was a bit like shooting fish in a barrel, but, as Sherlock never hesitated to point out, he and Victor together had made for rather tempting bait…

“Oi, Vic!” Anton’s voice called up from below. “Another round?”

Victor stood and leaned over the balcony. “Sure – I’ll come down and get it in a sec!” He turned to Sherlock, shaking his head. “Only way I can get him to take my money is to literally shove it into his pants.”

“Into his _pants_ , really?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I should think he’d be paying _you_ for the shoving…”

“Smartass…” Victor said, laughing as he realized he’d slipped into American usage. “Fine, trousers, whatever. You know what I mean!”

Sherlock snorted. “You’ve been away too long, Victor.”

“Oh, baby, you _have_ missed me!” Victor made a kissy voice and Sherlock gave him a shove.

“Shut it, you prat,” Sherlock gave him a shove, and Victor responded in kind, punctuating it with a fierce disciplinary tug on one of Sherlock’s curls, leading Sherlock to shout. “Dammit, we talked about this, Victor, stop…”

Victor grinned, refusing to let go. “Your mistake for telling me about the Kryptonite, Superman…”

The struggle continued until Sherlock stopped laughing. “Enough!” he intoned in a deep voice, and followed it with an icy look that made his intentions crystal clear. Victor was to stop.

Immediately.

And sure enough, he did.

Victor released Sherlock, with some reluctance, and sat back in his chair. “That voice is a gift, you know? A weapon.” He lit a cigarette and handed it to Sherlock, exhaling smoke from his lungs. “But it’s also a crutch. Makes it too easy for you – one growl and it’s all fucking over for most bottoms.”

“So, you’re mad that it’s easy for me?”

“I’m mad because you’re lazy, Rabbit…”

That NAME. Sherlock’s temper flared. “Jesus, Vic, can you not…”

“Oh, fuck off, no one can hear us up here.”

Sherlock pouted a bit, and took a long drag from his cigarette. “Fine. I can’t help my voice, though.”

“There’s nothing wrong with using your voice, your voice is gold. And using your voice – and only your voice – works for the one-offs. The boys in the club, or the one night stands. But one of these days, you’re going to meet someone you want to have a proper, perverse, long-term relationship with and you’re going to need a few more tricks in your bag.”

“Where’s this coming from, Victor?” Sherlock stared at him, a moment of uncertainty. “Did Alex…”

“Fuck no. Alex was a shallow little shit, content with an eyefuck and a handjob. He didn’t require advanced lessons.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “And yet, you seem to think that I need them now? Why?” He eyed Victor suspiciously.

Victor rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Sherlock, I haven’t seen you in years and I return to find you haven’t fucking had sex, much less a scene, in at least a year. You complain about being out of practice, you complain about not having time to find someone, and yet, just in the last few days, I’ve seen you miss nearly half a dozen glaring opportunities to get off and it’s all just sailed over your gigantic noggin.”

“You’re talking about that woman in the restaurant last night?”

“Oh my god, Sherlock, you’re killing me! Yes, the woman in the restaurant and yes, the dude at the chemist’s and the cabbie, and…” Victor interrupted himself, pausing unexpectedly.  “Look, all I want is for you to be ready for your next big thing, and your next big thing might be into this particular corner of kink, you never know.”

Sherlock scrubbed his face with his hand, leaning forward onto the table. “Who’s even saying that I get a next big thing?” he said, quietly, and in that moment, he looked so lost that even Victor softened.

“I do” he said, and reached out his hand to stroke Sherlock’s back. “And as you know, I know everything.” He threw back the rest of his Jack and Coke and turned his gentle stroke into a sharp slap on Sherlock’s back. “Besides, have you looked in a mirror lately? Neither sex is done with you yet, you sonofabitch, not by a long shot.”

He stood up. “You want another? I’m going downstairs.”

“Yes. Gin and tonic, cheers…”

*****

 

When John Watson thought about Molly Hooper, he thought about cats.

Kittens, really, and he wasn’t sure if maybe she’d talked about having a cat, or if she’d worn some sort of cat jumper once, but cats it was. She was a bit too young to register this mental response in him, too young to file away as a “Hopeless Spinster” and frankly, he hated that he even had a file under that name in his brain at all.

The fact is, under different circumstances, he actually might have fancied Molly Hooper for himself. She was, after all, smart, capable and kind – and she could manage Sherlock, in her own awkward way.

John walked into the morgue, and she looked up with a brilliant smile, a smile that faded somewhat when she realized that no one had accompanied the Doctor inside.

 “John, hello…no Sherlock today?”

“Hi, Molly -- no, left his riding crop at the cleaners.” John joked, lamely, and Molly was courteous enough to give it a chuckle. “Actually, he’s asked me to see how you all were coming along on Melinda Wilson, she should have been brought in early last night?”

She scanned the folders on her desk, lighting on one with her delicate hand. “White female, 42, gunshot wound to the head?”

“That’s the one.

“I was afraid of that. We haven’t gotten to her yet.” She nodded toward the bodies currently taking up residence on her exam tables, a full house. “There was a six-car pileup on the M25 yesterday afternoon, and the ME is still working his way through the casualties. But Wilson’s next in line. Want a call when we’re finished?”

John nodded. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

 “If you’d like, I can send you the report at the same time?”

“That would be incredibly helpful, thank you, Molly.”

“You’re quite welcome, John.”

She scribbled a note on her desk calendar and stood up to continue her work on the corpses. John caught a little something in her expression as she turned away, a particular tiredness in her eyes that seemed all too familiar.

“Hey, Molly?”

“Yes?”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Umm, I dunno. I had a packet of biscuits for breakfast, I think. Why?”

“That was, like, what? Six? Seven hours ago?” John walked over to where she stood. “You’re going to fall down if you don’t take a break.”

“I wish I could, but people are waiting for me to prep…”

“They can wait twenty minutes!” said John. “Trust me, the work gets shoddy after four hours with no break, much less seven. First-hand experience, remember?”

“Yeah, but your patients were alive and mine are…”

“The people you’re prepping may not be alive, but the people that are waiting for those reports are. And other lives may depend on them.” John said, with some authority. “Come on, I’ll buy you lunch.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t have to, but I want to. From one medical professional to another.”

Molly conceded, with a smile. “Yeah, alright, John. But just to the food trucks and back, twenty minutes!”

“You got it.” As she gathered her things, John smiled to himself, realizing that even months out of service, Captain Watson still had a knack for looking after his soldiers, even those who wore kitten jumpers.

*****

Sherlock waited for Victor to return with the drinks, and while he waited, he chewed on the last part of their conversation. The whole discussion had taken a rather abrupt turn when Sherlock had asked why Victor was suddenly so keen on renewing his instruction – and when Victor had launched into his litany of missed opportunities, don’t think for one second that Sherlock hadn’t noticed Victor’s abrupt moment of self-restraint, when he cut himself off and changed the subject.

Self-restraint from Victor? Something in that, certainly…

He steepled his hands in thought and closed his eyes, scanning through the people they’d encountered in the last 24 hours. It was really quite a lot, when you consider all the people at the crime scene, in the restaurant, in the tube on the way to Victor’s rental, in the elevator, on the street, in the tube on the way to Baker Street and even counting right here in the club. He shook his head. Too much data, even after you eliminated the few people Victor had already called out.

He chose instead to turn his attention to the primary problem at hand, and picked up his phone, tapping out three text messages, all in a row:

**John, text confirmation of bullet caliber ASAP.  –SH**

**Have Molly send tox screen at earliest. –SH**

**Don’t forget to look at her fingernails (not Molly’s). -SH**

He admonished himself for not taking greater care at the crime scene yesterday afternoon. It had all seemed so dreadfully straight-forward, he hadn’t felt the need to turn his laser-sights on the proceedings -- and then, of course, once Victor had waltzed into the picture, everything had gone topsy-turvy and normal procedure was abandoned entirely.

The victim had been on her back, the bullet hole blasted clean through her temple and shot at short range. She’d been wearing a modest dress, pretty, but not one you’d picture a woman wearing to an assignation in a cheap hotel – put a pin in that. Her ring finger had been empty, but bore a pronounced tan line. At the time he’d assumed she was an adulteress, but clearly not – Chad had divorced her almost a decade ago. So why the tan-line? Perhaps she was sentimental, perhaps she’d remarried. Needs further research. Another pin. The Met’s notes on the victim’s boyfriend were scant, requires further investigation. Pin. Lily’s step-monster Fulvia? Pin. Lily herself?

Hmm, Sherlock rumbled deep in his throat. She was going to be fun. No obvious tells, but definitely some hints there that things were not as they seemed. And the photograph in his pocket…rather large and glowing pin there.

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply, thinking back to the crime scene and shifting around it like a camera, revolving 180-degrees from victim to…Victor.

Scratches on his neck, lube under his nails. Sole witness, convenient. Who’d been with him in his hotel room that night? Considering his ample rented flat, not far from the location, why had he even brought his date to that shabby hotel room in the first place? Pin and pin.

And what of this club in Peckham? Victor said to tread lightly and not mention the investigation. Curious. Dangerous? He’d said no, not unless we mentioned the investigation. Even more curious.

Downstairs, the band had finished loading in their gear and setting it up on the tiny stage, and soundcheck had begun in earnest. The drummer played a sequence on drums once, then twice, a third time.

He checked his phone. No response to his texts. It was irritating. Whatever was John _doing_ at Bart’s?

*****

They sat at a small picnic table on the edge of Postman’s Park, a small food truck feast in their hands – sandwiches wrapped in butcher’s paper, bags of crisps, lemonade for Molly, cup of tea for John.

It had turned into a lovely day. The sun was out, and a light breeze ruffled Molly’s hair, which had come a bit loose from her inevitable ponytail.

“Thanks for this,” Molly said. “It’s been a bit mad lately. It’s like everyone decided to die in the same month.”

“Just my luck – I’m working a case right in the middle of the deadliest month of the year!”

Molly smiled. John’s phone chirped. He lifted it to read the screen. “Sherlock?” she asked.

“Of course.” John said, “He wants confirmation of bullet caliber ASAP.”

Molly giggled. “ASAP, as if he ever wants things any other way.”

John agreed. “He can be demanding.”

His phone chirped again. “Oh, he wants the tox screen as well.”

“ _Can_ be demanding, you were saying?” She quirked her eyebrow, mischievously.

“Fine. It’s his single most consistent and compelling feature.”

“And it’s dead-sexy.” Molly said shyly, looking down into her cup.

“God, yes…” said John, automatically, and Molly looked up with surprise. John stammered. “I mean, I can see how…”

“I knew it!” Molly’s mouth fell into a knowing smirk. “You…like him!”

John lifted his chin, defiant. “Of course I like him. He’s my flatmate.”

“No,” Molly said, with relish. “You _like_ him, like him!”

“Well,” he crossed his arms over his chest. “So do you.”

Her turn to stammer. Her turn to blush. And then they both burst into peals of embarrassed laughter.

“Oh my gosh, we’re both so…”

“Pathetic, really, truth be told…”

“But he’s just so, wow, and his cheekbones…”

“And that voice!”

John’s phone sounded for a third time. “Fingernails, he says. Be sure to check her fingernails.”

“It’s like he knows we’re talking about him,” Molly said. “Does he know how you feel?”

“God, no!” John said, with the same fervor as his previous exclamation. “And he won’t, if I have anything to say about it. Well, not any time soon, anyway. His love life’s proving to be far more complicated than anything I’d ever anticipated.”

Molly leaned in. “Oh, dish – do tell.”

“Nah, I shouldn’t.” John said. “Suffice it to say that he’s not nearly as icy as he seems.”

Molly beamed. This lunch had proven far more interesting than she’d thought.

John took a bite of his sandwich, wondering if Sherlock was still meeting with Victor, when a sudden thought struck him. “Hey Molly?”

“Yes?”

“How long have you known Sherlock, anyway?”

“Let me see, I started working at Bart’s in…and Sherlock showed up not long after…” She drummed her fingers against the table, counting. “Four years, give or take a few months. Which makes me even more pathetic, I know.”

“Not so, Molls! It just makes you…loyal.” He wiped his mouth with a serviette, continuing his train of thought. “Okay, so four years. I’m curious, do you ever remember anyone else coming by the morgue with Sherlock? This would’ve been during the first few years you knew him.”

Molly considered his question, and shook her head. “No, not really.”

“Slightly older guy, blond, dresses for shite?”

She shook her head again. “No, you’re the only sidekick he’s had since I’ve been around.”

“Sidekick!” John protested, taking mock-offense. “I’ll have you know that I am nobody’s sidekick! And besides - how do you know he’s not my sidekick?”

“Duly noted, Doctor,” Molly giggled. “Either way, you’d _both_ look fab in a spandex suit!”

“Stop it, you,” said John, taking another bite of his sandwich. “And damn you for putting that image in my mind.”

“You’re more than welcome, John.” She winked, and stole a crisp from his bag.

*****

 

He checked the time as Victor came upstairs with the drinks. “Last one, Victor, I really should be sober for the trip to the strip club.”

Victor laughed. “I’m pretty sure that’s the first time that phrase has ever been spoken in the history of the English language.”  He handed him his drink.

Sherlock threw him a small smile. “You know, it occurred to me that we’ve been talking an awful lot about my sex life, but there’s been barely a peep about yours. You seeing anyone seriously?”

 “I was. She called it off. “ Victor tried to throw off a casual façade, but his eyes betrayed it.

“Sorry.” Sherlock felt uneasy. “Is that why you’re here?”

Victor nodded. “Change of scenery always helps.” He swirled the ice in his glass. “Honestly, it’s been good to have your ass around to occupy my mind for a little while.”

“’Mind’, is that what we’re calling your dick these days?” Sherlock smirked. One of the most reassuring things about Victor, to Sherlock, at least, was the fact that when you were with him, there’s no such thing as an inappropriate remark.

 The remark made Victor rally a bit. “If that’s so, it would certainly change the meaning of that Willie Nelson song, wouldn’t it?”

Sherlock gave him a blank look.

“Oh, Christ, never mind, pop culture references are completely wasted on you,” Victor teased, just as Sherlock’s phone trilled.

**Just left Bart’s. Where are you? -j**

**26 Denmark Street. I’ll meet you outside. - SH**

“Professor Trevor, I’ve got twelve minutes, give or take, before my ride shows up.  Care to wrap up today’s lesson?” Sherlock figured that the twelve minutes would give them ample time for a quickie in the stalls, for old time’s sake.

“I think I can do that.” Victor lifted his chin, but made no move to go downstairs. Instead, he looked at Sherlock for a good long time, and then leaned in for a kiss.

A very chaste kiss, it turned out.

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. What fresh hell was this?

“Do you know the difference between humiliation and degradation?” Victor asked.

“Humiliation embarrasses, degradation is a step beyond, I’d assume?”

“Exactly. Good boy.” Victor traced the outline of Sherlock’s jaw with his finger and delivered another very chaste kiss.

This was not fair, thought Sherlock.

“Degradation wears away at the pet’s self-esteem. The line’s fuzzy, so you have to know your sub to make sure you don’t cross the line. I had a slave who was a bit of a bear, slightly overweight, but he was quite sensitive about it. I called him every filthy name in the book, and it was a turn-on for him, but I never once directed a weight-related cruelty his way. Could’ve been damaging, plus it just woulda been mean, you know? To someone else, it might be cool, though, depending on the sub, you savvy?”

Sherlock nodded, blankly.

“Are you listening, Sherlock, or are you thinking about my tongue in your mouth?”

“I am listening, and I am thinking about your tongue, but I’m also thinking of taking you hard in the loo downstairs…”

“Greedy little shit, aren’t you?” Victor said, and Sherlock reddened. “Presumptuous, too…”

He leaned in and nipped him on the lips, but refused even a chaste kiss. Sherlock was annoyed. He pushed away from the table.

“Humiliation uses embarrassment, fear, shame and frustration as points for arousal and can be broken down into two types, physical and verbal. You, my friend, are basically a verbal savant – naturally skilled at it, from birth most likely, but you do it without having the slightest idea what you’re doing.”

“Hey, that’s not…”

“Shush, Daddy’s talking. Every time you’ve called a sub a slut, or forced them to call you Sir, or even made them ask to cum, you’ve been using Verbal Humiliation tactics.” Victor slid his chair closer to Sherlock’s, his body as close as one could be without touching. Sherlock’s cock responded to his approach, and he breathed deeply through his nose as Victor breathed into his ear…

“It’s not just name-calling, Rabbit. In a regular scene it’s used to establish status, but with people who specifically like humiliation, you have to understand, _the words are the fetish_ : Slut, whore, bitch, unworthy, useless. They are the _triggers._ Ever watch someone slip into subspace on a single word?”

Sherlock nodded, and his mind went back to the time he’s called someone worthless in a scene. The man had folded in on himself in agreement, his erection waxing with every mention of the word. It had been breathtaking to watch.

“That word meant something specific to that one person, something special or horrible, and the word transported them. So you have to be careful, my bunny. Words can be dangerous.”

Victor eyed Sherlock, and pulled at his own zipper. Sherlock’s eyes opened at the sound, but when he reached for Victor’s cock, he was refused.

“Greedy.” Victor said. It was the second time he’d used that word and Sherlock bit back a bitter, frustrated response.

That’s when his mind bloomed with sudden understanding.

He remembered telling Victor a story, long ago, about his father chastising him at a birthday party. He’d turned eleven, and he’d been upset after the last present had been opened -- he’d asked for a laboratory-grade microscope, but had received a ten-speed bike instead. His father had called him “greedy”, shaming him in front of the party guests. In context with this story, the word was hardly sexy, but it had sent an perceptible shiver of shame through Sherlock, even before his brain had made the connection.

Victor purred. “Good, you got it…”

He was still a breath away from making actual physical contact with Sherlock, but instead of spanning that distance, Victor took himself, literally, in hand. “I once had a pet who triggered to the word ‘deserve’.”

Sherlock bit his lip, getting hard at the sight of Victor wanking off, and wondered what would happen if Anton caught them with both their cocks out in his bar. Yet again.

“If I told her she didn’t deserve to cum, it was all over. She was mine for the rest of the night.” Victor became a little breathless as he shifted his weight, and further tugged on his cock.

“Need help with that, old man?” asked Sherlock, as if it was generosity that was inspiring his offer, and not his own hardening member.

“You want to make me cum?” Victor’s eyes had gone all sleepy and bliss-filled.

“Yes, Victor, I do…” Sherlock pushed, leaning in closer.

“Right here, out in the open?” Victor breathed the words against his skin.

“Yesss!” Sherlock hissed, eager to make Victor mewl and cry beneath his fingers.

That’s when Victor snapped out of his reverie and sat up with a shot, putting himself back into his pants and pulling the zip decidedly shut. “Sorry, Sherlock, you’re a greedy boy who’s already had my cock at least three times today.”

Sherlock’s mouth gaped open. “Are you joking?”

“I don’t joke about getting laid, Sherlock.” Victor grinned. “That’s the quick and dirty on Verbal Humiliation, and the denial you are now experiencing is just a preview of the next lesson on Physical Humiliation. Works like a charm.”

On the table, Sherlock’s phone trilled again.

**Cab’s here. Thought you were going to be waiting outside? –j.**

Sherlock groaned and turned to Victor. “Oh, you are so going to pay for this, Victor.”

“Gives us both something to look forward to, then doesn’t it?” Victor stood up. “Now, I’m going to go sort myself out in the men’s. You have fun at Player’s East. Sherlock,” He cooed, and delivering a pointed look at Sherlock’s trousers, said, “if you need any uh, assistance while you’re there, ask for Darcy. I’ve heard great things...”

He descended the stairs, and Sherlock picked up the phone, sullenly tapping out a response, his erection aching.

**Leaving now. –SH**

Sherlock hit send and stood, putting on his coat. Never had he been so grateful for the Belstaff, and he pulled it around him, completely hiding the frustration he’d been left with.

_Fucking Victor…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***End-Note Extras***
> 
> \- [The 12 Bar Club](http://www.12barclub.com/) is a real place.  
> I've not been there, but it seemed like a place Victor might like. It also sounds like one of the most challenging venues to watch a band play (apparently from the balcony all you can see is the top of the performers’ heads, and from the floor, they’re cut off at the waist). Full disclosure: I have played with the club’s history a bit, to better serve the needs of this story.
> 
> \- Regarding Sherlock’s “kryptonite”: as I’m sure you know, I’m referencing Benedict Cumberbatch’s own kryptonite – [his reported “sensitive follicles”](http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/29/arts/television/benedict-cumberbatch-moves-from-role-to-role.html?pagewanted=all). 
> 
> \- Do they have food trucks in London? [You betcha!](http://pursuitist.com/london-street-food-10-best-food-trucks/)  
> \- The Willie Nelson song Victor referenced? [This one, of course](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R7f189Z0v0Y)! 
> 
> \- A Note about BDSM (and this note has been a long time coming): While I write about kink, I’M NO EXPERT, so please don’t try any of this at home without reading a damn book or two or seventy. So, for those about to perve, we salute you (but we strongly suggest you read a dang book first)! Start here:
> 
>  
> 
> [“Screw The Roses, Send Me The Thorns”](http://www.amazon.com/Screw-Roses-Send-Thorns-Sadomasochism/dp/0964596008)
> 
>  
> 
> [“Different Loving”](http://www.amazon.com/Different-Loving-Sexual-Dominance-Submission/dp/0679769560/ref=pd_sim_b_4)
> 
>  
> 
> [“The Loving Dominant”](http://www.amazon.com/Loving-Dominant-John-Warren/dp/1890159727/ref=sr_1_14?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1376797403&sr=1-14&keywords=safe+sane+and+consensual) (warning: very het-centric) 
> 
> \- Oh, and big news: I may have found a Britpicker (whose name will remain confidential until she’s fully on-board)! So UK friends, in the very near future, you might not have to cringe every time I write “kerb” as “curb”! This may delay the posting of the next installment a bit, as we sort out our schedules, but I’ll keep you posted on my Tumblr.
> 
> More sexytimes nextimes, when we finally go to Peckham and see what happens when Sherlock visits a gentlemen’s club (and I’m not talking about Diogenes, babies)! 
> 
> Thanks for sticking around and stuff!  
> vex.


	9. "You're Fucking Welcome"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John finally make it to the strip club to investigate Louis Lloyd, but neither of them anticipates that the night will end the way it does...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'm happy to announce that this chapter marks the arrival of [scribblywobblytimeylimey](http://scribblywobblytimeylimey.tumblr.com), my very first Beta and Britpicker extraordinaire! As I told her, I now understand why people have Betas and Britpickers -- the difference she made in the quality of my writing and the authenticity of the Anglicisms is palpable, so THANK YOU, SCRIBBLY!
> 
> Second, I know I was a bit late posting this week, but I'm making up for it in volume, babies! Chapter 9 is a whopping 5700 words, making it about DOUBLE the length of my usual schtick. It's a good thing, too, because I am heading off to DragonCon this very afternoon, so will NOT be posting a new chapter until Sunday after next (9/8). Hopefully, this double chapter will hold you until I return! ;-)
> 
> Third, thank you all so much for reading and commenting and subscribing and kudo-ing and just being all-around fabulous to this wordy-porn-girl. You make me grin on a daily basis and I adore each and every one of you filthy darlings!
> 
> Oh, and -- [follow me on Tumblr](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/), if you like. I mostly reblog, but if you follow me, you'll be the first to receive Rabbit news and updates!
> 
> Finally, if you're going to DragonCon, I'll be wearing Sherlock shirts all four days, so if you see a shirt, you might be seeing me! ;-p

**_9:34pm_ **

_There were hands tugging on John’s waist, bringing him in for a kiss. More to the point, John was being kissed, and he trembled at the first touch of tongue on his lips, blissfully giving in to the man whose hand was now sliding along his jawline, tilting his face up, directing the kiss, controlling it, controlling him, good god…_

_He closed his eyes, and was rewarded with a series of soft kisses along his eyelashes in return. It was a surprisingly sentimental gesture, and it pushed John even deeper into subspace, knowing that this man was capable of tenderness as well._

_Not that tenderness was what John wanted at that very moment. At that moment, all John really wanted was for his wants and needs not to matter at all._

_He exhaled, his breath shallow, his mouth open, biting kisses into the other man’s neck. He rolled his hips, grinding into him, feeling their erections slide against one another through their clothes. Too many clothes, thought John._

_“Patience,” the man said. “We’ve got all the time in the world…”_

*****

**6:02pm**

Sherlock rolled into the cab, his arsehole gun set to stun, apparently.

“You’re late.”

“…And yet we still had to wait for you…”

“You came via High Holborn, didn’t you?“ Sherlock asked John, and then rapped on the Perspex to get the driver’s attention. “This time of day, you should’ve come along Clerkenwell!” The driver ignored him, and John shot him an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry, but are you in a hurry for some reason?” John turned to face his flatmate. “Because by my watch, the club just opened.”

Sherlock made an irritated noise and bloused his coat in front of him further, arms crossed in front of him, the movement sending the unmistakable scent of gin John’s way.

“You’ve been drinking.”  John said, matter of factly.

“Yes, I have. Excellent deduction, John, considering you picked me up outside a bar.”

John chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his temper. “Did something happen in there, with Victor?”

Silence. Sherlock closed his eyes and mentally commanded his erection to quell, but to John, who was clueless to his struggle, it just looked like a petulant tactic to avoid the conversation.

“Fine, you’re impossible…”

“I’m not impossible, I’m….” Sherlock considered revealing the source of his temper, but thought better of it. “…not feeling well. Perhaps I should’ve eaten something today.”

“Well, then you’re lucky, aren’t you?” John pulled a bag of crisps from his pocket. “Molly didn’t eat hers.”

“You had lunch with Molly?” Sherlock looked at him with new interest.

“Not like that, you git. Eat your crisps.”

Sherlock took the bag, reluctantly, knowing crisps couldn’t possibly assist him with his current problem. He attempted an objection. “But…they’re barbeque…”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but the correct response is ‘Thank you, John’…”

Sherlock made a face, but opened the bag anyway, tentatively tasting a crisp. Repulsive. How many of these would he have to eat to make his lie seem like a truth? “It’ll do for now.” He looked down at John, somewhat awkwardly. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” John said, pleased to see Sherlock complying with social niceties, for once, even if John had prompted his behaviour.

Meanwhile, Sherlock’s mind raced to think of the best erectile suppressants imaginable…

He thought about gaudy Christmas jumpers.

He thought about curdled milk.

He thought about the shorts Mycroft wore to the beach at the last Holmes family outing.

Ah, that’s the one, thought Sherlock. The mental image of his brother’s ghastly, pale legs certainly seemed to be doing the trick. He visibly relaxed into the seat.

“Feeling better?” John looked over at him, concerned.

“Yes, sorry,” said Sherlock, another awkward admission. “Guess the, uh, crisps did the trick.” Embarrassed, he receded into his phone, reviewing some of the images he’d snapped from Lestrade’s case file.

In the quiet of the cab, John watched him out of the corner of his eye, thumbing through the photos, admiring the grace of his fingers on the device, the curve of his lip, the arch of his eyebrow…it seemed so unfair that one man should be so beautiful. John forced himself to look away and to break the silence, to fill the space between them with words.

“What did Victor say about tonight?”

Sherlock’s eyes never left the device. “He said it would be safe as long as we didn’t mention the investigation.”

“So, we’re just customers, then?”

“Two mates out for some fun, yes.”

It was odd for John to imagine that Sherlock could have anything resembling “fun” in that kind of environment.

“The strip club,” he asked. “Will this be something…new for you?”

Sherlock cocked his head with a curious expression. “You know, somewhere along the way, John, you’ve developed this image of me as somehow…I’m not sure, presexual?”

“Sherlock, that’s not at all what I…” protested John.

“I know,” said Sherlock, cutting him off, “and I thought that Victor’s presence would nip it in the bud, but apparently not. So, for the record, let’s just dispel any and all assumptions that you might have about my naïveté, shall we?”

“Sherlock, this is truly none of my business, and…”

“Strip clubs, yes, sex clubs, yes, dungeons, hmmm, absolutely yes. I fornicate, John, I masturbate, I am an avid fan of pornography, and frankly, I’m a fairly decent pornographer in my own right, when the mood strikes. I have personally hired call girls, escorts and prostitutes and the only difference, really, is in the quality of their shoes. I have been to both Amsterdam and Las Vegas and found both to be deeply lacking in imagination. I like boys and girls and oral and anal and public and shared and spanking and bondage and handcuffs and bloodplay and knifeplay and autoerotic asphyxiation – and all this, all of this, John, is just the tip of the iceberg…”

Sherlock took a breath. John’s jaw had gone slack sometime around the pornographer comment, and the cabbie was suddenly finding it very hard to focus on the road ahead.

“So, to answer your question, no. Going to a strip club won’t be a new experience for me, John, I assure you.” And at that, Sherlock smiled amiably, and went back to his phone and the case file photos, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he’d now left John with his previous problem: an unexpected hard-on in the backseat of the cab.

 

*****

 

**_9:57pm_ **

_“This is going to complicate things, you know,” he said, stripping off John’s shirt._

_“I know.”_

_“We don’t have to do this.”_

_“I want to do this.”_

_The other man pressed him back against the wall, and stared into John’s face. “You really do, don’t you?”_

_“Yesss…” John exhaled, the word sounding like a hiss._

 

*****

**6:13pm**

All things considered, the ride from 12 Bar to Peckham had been a relatively short one, and before they knew it, the cab had pulled up to the kerb in front of the rather optimistically-named Players Club East -- as if there might eventually be one at every point on the compass!

Sherlock handed the driver a note, deferring the change, and both Sherlock and John exited the car. “How long has it been since you’ve been in one of these places, John?”

“How do you know that I’ve _ever_ been to one of these places?”

“You’re interested in girls, you were in the military, and you’ve had at least three friends include you in their wedding parties. Wedding parties mean bachelor parties, which mean places like these, more often than not. Also, there’s the fact of your sister: fond of alcohol, fond of women. No doubt the two of you have bonded over a pint and a lap dance from a girl whose proportions are more ideal than her circumstances?”

John made a horrified face. “Oh, god, no, don’t be disgusting. That’s my _sister_ you’re talking about. The words ‘sister’ and ‘lap dance’ should never, ever be used in the same sentence!”

“Hm…” Sherlock frowned. “Must be a gender thing, then, because Mycroft and I used to…”

“Ugh, just belt up, already! I don’t want to know, Sherlock! If I did, I’d never be able to look your brother in the face again!” John spontaneously gave him a little playful shove for emphasis, realising in the middle of it that the action, while harmless, was…not something he did with Sherlock. It was, rather, something _Victor_ did with Sherlock, and once he’d realised that fact, John withdrew immediately.

“Sorry…” was all he could say.

“It’s fine,” said Sherlock, with a slight air of annoyance. “I’m not a china doll, you know. Come on, let’s find our Mr. Lloyd…”

They pushed through the doors into the club. It was an establishment that, at best estimate, had been last remodeled sometime around 1985:burgundy colored wallscompeted with  neon beer signs, the requisite black and white chequerboard stage no longer lit up the way it was supposed to, and the bronze poles that dotted the runway were dull and dented. A greasy-looking bouncer met Sherlock and John at the ticket window.

“Cover’s £10, comes with a free steak buffet, and the Champagne Suite is open, gents.”

 “Cheers, mate,” said John, passing him a tenner and receiving a UV stamp on his right hand. Sherlock did the same, but not before putting on one of his terrifyingly “harmless” smiles. John heard his voice shift up a register and watched his posture slouch and dip. Somewhere between the front door and the ticket window, Sherlock’s impeccable shirt has become partially untucked. The man was suddenly ten years younger, and John felt an automatic tugging at his cock. Sherlock ten years ago would’ve been Sherlock when he was friends with Victor, when he was an addict, when he was a careless twenty-bloody-six year old, and an unforeseen greediness inside of John wanted that available, damaged Sherlock, almost as much as he wanted this year’s model - but not quite.

“Is the manager about?” Sherlock asked, that bit of innocence in the pitch of his voice. “I’ve got a mate in a band and they play gentlemen’s clubs like this for free, for practice. Thought I might pass on their number while I’m here”

The bouncer shook his head. “Mr Lloyd isn’t in yet, but he’s not bleeding likely to be interested in your mate’s emo stepdubby band or whatever, now is he?”

Sherlock tried very hard to look crestfallen, and damn if it didn’t work. The bouncer took pity, uncrossed his arms and said, with a deep sigh, “Look, when Mr Lloyd comes in, I’ll tell him about it. That’s all I can do.”

Sherlock beamed, and then promptly left the persona at the window.

Once they’d entered the club proper, they staked out a table with a view – not of the dancers, although it most certainly had that. No, what they wanted were seats with a clear view of the hall near the loo, the one that most likely led to Lloyd’s administrative office. Considering the time and the quality of the club, it wasn’t exactly difficult to get the table they wanted – there were only about half-a-dozen other customers present on this day at Players East.

A waitress wearing a barely-there skirt swung by the table, depositing napkins and taking drink orders. Sherlock asked for mineral water. John ordered a beer.

“So, we’re just sitting here until…?”

“Until Lloyd shows up. Or until we learn something else interesting.”

“And in the meantime?”

Sherlock smiled into his drink, which had just arrived. “I suppose we do our best to enjoy the scenery.”

Unfortunately, for the most part, the scenery was just about what you’d expect from a fourth-tier strip club in Peckham, at just after five in the afternoon. A parade of past-their-primes, caesarean scars, and too-young-to-know-betters, all swaying to a soundtrack that matched the club’s outdated décor. Given that, it should come as no surprise that John spent most of his time watching Sherlock watch the room, instead of watching the gyrating bodies around him.

Because Sherlock, you see, was hard at work, making deductions about every person in the room, an automatic response, involuntary, this cataloguing of every bruise, every whiff of cologne, every scuffed shoe, every spit-up stain and every blemish, every bitten lip and every broken nail, every unravelling jumper, every missing sequin or overdue haircut. A non-stop, 24/7 data stream, exhaustive and exhausting, and John felt sorry for the graceful man in the expensive suit, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.

It should be noted that John wasn’t the only one paying close attention to Sherlock. The fact was, they were both garnering quite a bit of interest from the performers. Not a surprise, really – they were both far more attractive than the rest of the afternoon clientele, and the quality of Sherlock’s clothing alone screamed money.

“Having a good time, handsome?” A smiling brunette in a schoolgirl skirt approached Sherlock, leaning in to best show off her décolletage. Sherlock gave her a sweeping glance, making a dozen deductions before he’d even reached her waist.

“The schoolgirl look is, perhaps, not the best choice for a woman over 40. Sorry about your son’s maths grade, and yes, you probably _should_ have that mole checked.”

Needless to say, the schoolgirl didn’t stick around for long. Neither did the girl in the Daisy Duke shorts, the girl with the gauges, or the girl who seemed to be channelling Baby Spice.

“Think you might want to rein in your observations? Just a little?” John asked, “Unless you _want_ them to chase us out of here with sticks…”

“I’m just making conversation!” But Sherlock took his advice into consideration, and held his tongue while he kept an eye out for anyone who might be Louis Lloyd.

In the meantime, John relaxed, had a second beer, and from a distance, discovered a few hidden pockets of talent among the performers at Players East.

“How long have we lived together now, Sherlock? Four months, give or take?”

Sherlock reflected. “18 weeks and some change. Why?”

“Well, because by this time, I feel like I should know your tastes in…things.”

“Well, you know the tea I prefer, my preferred brand of nicotine patch, you know where I buy my shirts, and as my flatmate, I suspect you could make an educated guess as to my preferences regarding toilet roll placement. What more do you need to know?”

John jerked his head to the half-naked blonde draped over a punter, three tables away. “You said you were bisexual. Tell me about your taste in women.”

Sherlock stroked his neck thoughtfully. “I think I’d prefer that you guess…”

“What?”

“If we’re going to play this game, let’s play it. Guess for me, I’ll guess for you.”

“Friendly bet, or bet bet?”

“Bets are always friendly, until they aren’t.” Sherlock said.

“Loser does the shopping, for a month?”

“It’s a wager, then.”

“Who’s to say you’ll tell the truth if I guess correctly?”

“Congratulations, John, you’ve discovered my devious plan to avoid the chip and pin machine…”

“Fair enough – although that machine _is_ a right bastard.” John held out his hand to Sherlock. “Alright, then, it’s a bet!” They shook on it, and immediately began looking for each other’s best match.

What _would_ Sherlock like in a woman?  John had really only begun to process the fact that his flatmate had sexual feelings in the first place, and as for his taste, he really only had Victor to go by. Sherlock had narrowed the field considerably though, with his tableside rebuffs, but it had still left John with several promising candidates.

Sherlock, of course, had even less to go on, having never seen John with anyone - but then again, he did have those remarkable powers of observation.

“I need to gather some more data…” said Sherlock, who stood and approached a small cluster of dancers at the edge of the bar. John watched with amusement as Sherlock engaged them in conversation. When they didn’t recoil in horror at whatever it was he was saying, John assumed he was playing another role, and god only knew what that was.

“Your friend leave you behind?”

John turned to find one of his chosen candidates for Sherlock standing beside their table. She was quite stunning, especially for this place, a tall Nordic-looking blonde, leggy, angular, coltish.

He smiled. “Yeah, he has a tendency to do that. I’m John.”

*****

**_10:04pm_ **

_John was on his knees, sucking cock, taking the man deep into his throat. The sight of him made the man’s own knees buckle a bit, watching John gag, watching his eyes water as his throat muscles contracted, beautiful. He buried a hand in John’s hair, cueing him to increase his pace, watching him take that cue and run with it._

_“Good boy…”_

_John flushed at the praise and redoubled his efforts, his hand following the movements of his mouth, the vacuum of his mouth followed by the firm touch of his hand, everything slick and warm and wet and oh, such a talent…_

_The man moaned above him and then pushed him away._

_“Your mouth is too good, you filthy little cocksucker…”_

_John’s erection swelled and bounced at the comment. “Yes…Sir.”_

_“You like when I call you that?”_

_“Yes. I…do.”_

_“Why?”_

_John struggled to find words, shifting his brain from feeling and doing to thinking and speaking, a difficult transition for him at the moment. This altered state, this trance, this subspace, it was where he went when things went right in a scene, but it wasn’t particularly conducive to conversation.“I…it…makes me feel…understood.”_

_“Explain.”_

_John sat back on his heels, face wet, hair tangled. “Because it’s true. I am…filthy, and I have all of these thoughts and I want, I want…”_

_“…you want me to tell you it’s okay?”_

_“Yes, Sir.”_

_“…you want me to give you permission?”_

_“Oh, yess, exactly…”_

_“…to make you deserving of my cock?”_

_“Fuck, yes...”_

_The man reached down and pulled John up onto his feet, kissing him deeply, the man’s tongue tasting of alcohol and nicotine._

_“Alright, then,” the man said, when they came up for air, “let’s go to your room.”_

 

*****

**7:35pm**

“John, I’d like you to meet Ginger.”

Ginger was, of course, a ginger – young, and quite lovely, with long hair and a peaches-and-cream complexion. Also, not a stripper. She was, in fact, their waitress.

“Hello, Ginger.”

She grinned. “Your friend said you were both doing a bit of matchmaking.”

“Ginger, here,” Sherlock explained, “is getting her degree in psychology, she has a brother in the military and a preference for men who can dance.”

John looked at him, quizzically. “How do you know that I can dance?”

“Don’t be daft, John,” he said, “Once we got rid of that cane, it was obvious.”He looked up at the waitress. “Thanks, Ginger - I think you may have just won me a bet.”

“I hope so -- you’re adorable, John. Call me, if you like…” She handed him a card with her number, and picked up their empty glasses. “In the meantime, another round, fellas?”

They both nodded, and she headed for the bar.

Sherlock looked triumphant. “Beat that, Watson.”

“You are a right bastard, you know that? Do you have to be good at everything?” John asked. “She’s spot on, on every level. Except age, maybe, she is a little young.”

“Well, I can only work within the parameters of the demographics that are present.”

“True…”

“So, who do you have for me?”

John swivelled his head in the direction of the stage, where the Nordic blonde was currently hanging upside-down on the pole. “That’s Bianca. Swedish, I believe, and easily the most classically beautiful woman in the room.”

Sherlock contemplated Bianca from afar. “Quite attractive, John, but I’m quite disappointed in you. An uninspired choice, just choosing the prettiest one. Am I that shallow?”

“You’re so exacting, I’d just assumed…”

“You assumed incorrectly,” said Sherlock, a smile softening his words. “Given the choice between perfect and flawed, I pick flawed every time. Far more interesting. I also prefer my partners to be a little more…carnal, really. The ice queen has never appealed. I like them…dirty.”

John’s insides turned over, hearing Sherlock say that word, in that context, and his erection resurfaced. “How…how do you, I mean…okay, so who should I have picked for you?”

Sherlock scanned the crowd, “I’ve been paying particular attention to one particular woman since we came in, John – and if you’d been the slightest bit observant, you could have won this bet with ease.” He nodded in the direction of a woman who was chatting up some older gents at a nearby table.

She was an interesting choice. Dark hair, roman nose, dark eyes beneath artfully arched brows, narrow waist, ample breasts. She was exotic and dangerous looking, and together with Sherlock, John realized, they’d form a most terrifying couple.

She felt their stares, and glanced their way.

“What do you think, John?” Sherlock asked. “Should I invite her over?”

John took a breath. “I think she’s remarkable, but she scares the fuck out of me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock slid his eyes to John, a half-smile on his face. “Yes, and isn’t it wonderful?”

And with that, he gestured for her to join their table.

*****

**_10:58pm_ **

_“You’re a tease, by the way…”_

_“How am I a tease?”_

_“This morning. Showing up so thoroughly shagged and glowing with it. Showing off is what that was…”_

_“Don’t give me that – I live in this house, remember? You had more than your share of sex last night – not to mention the night before.”_

_“Still. Show off.”_

_John rolled over, the beginnings of a headache forming at the back of his skull. “Hand me that glass of water?”_

_He did and John drank it down. “I’m going to hate myself tomorrow, aren’t I?”_

_The man took the empty glass from him._

_“I certainly hope not, John.”_

*****

**7:53pm**

Her name was Darcy, and of course she and Sherlock hit it off, banter flying.  Weird to see Sherlock flirting, infuriating, really, watching him touch his hair and light her cigarette because goddamn, John had met him _first_. It was one thing for Sherlock to be close to Victor; they shared history, after all -- but the entrance of this bloody Peckham stripper seemed to have rendered John invisible, and, at the same time, wiped out Sherlock’s memory of why they were in this godforsaken hole, in the first place.

Things got exponentially more difficult, however, the moment they entered the Champagne Suite. While Darcy gathered the champagne, John and Sherlock bickered.

 “The sodding Champagne Suite? No, just, no, Sherlock. Have you forgotten why we’re here?”

“I have not.”

“I think you have. You’ve gone all goofy, ever since she…”

“I’ve not gone all goofy. And you’re drunk.”

“Oh yeah?” John flailed his arms, helplessly. “What about the case, Sherlock? What about Lloyd?”

“What do you think this is all about, John?”

“I think this is about you getting laid, which is rich, considering what you were doing last night, and the night before…what would Victor think of this little outing, hmm?”

Sherlock pointed him to a chair. “Shut up and sit down, John. This is not about me getting laid. This is about getting information. Look: clearly, Louis Lloyd isn’t showing up tonight…”

“Oh my god, you do remember!”

“Yes, John. You have such little faith in me…”

“So what’s this all about, then?”

“Victor had mentioned Darcy by name this afternoon. I think he knew she’d be willing to talk. I need to get her alone to ask her questions about Lloyd, and this is the most private room in the place.”

John looked at him suspiciously. “That’s all this is?”

“That’s all this is.” Sherlock removed his coat and carefully placed it on a nearby chair. “Now, that’s not to say I won’t accept a dance from her along with the information. I’m not an idiot, John...”

“So why do you need me here?”

“Because I need her to feel safe with me, and I need a witness to whatever information she might divulge.”

John emptied another beer. “Alright, Sherlock,” he said. “But I’m leaving the minute the conversation turns away from murder.”

“Of course, John.” Sherlock smiled, his glance lingering a split second longer than it usually would. He looked as if he was going to say something else, but thought better of it.

Darcy came in and set up the champagne, pouring glasses for all three of them.

They toasted, John raising his glass from his chair. She closed the curtain to the main room, and opened the curtains covering the mirrored security wall. Darcy motioned to the wall. “The bouncer can see, but not hear. The speaker from this room died years ago, and Louis never bought a new one.”

“So, we just have to make it look good?”

“Sherlock, I have a feeling you’d make anything look good.”

John eyerolled from his chair. This was going to be painful…

Darcy cycled through the music player and selected some background music. Edgy and ambient, but somewhat muted - easy to speak over.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Darcy, I just want to let you know that we appreciate your assistance.”

“Don’t be silly, Sherlock,” she said, swaying to the music. “Anything to screw over Louis…”

She draped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as she moved around him, grazing his neck, his ears, sliding down his arms to his fingertips.

“Sounds like you have an axe to grind?”

She turned to face him, hands moving from her shoulders down her body, hips undulating. “No more than anyone else. He’s a terrible boss and an awful person, but he’s never done anything to me.”

Sherlock leaned in, as if attempting to touch, playing his part to perfection. She rebuffed him, and he immediately backed down, a bit of pantomime intended to put the bouncer at ease. “He’s done things to others, then?”

She shimmied slowly, and circled him once more. “He’s abusive to the girls. Bruises, mostly, some broken bones. He’s demanded…favours. He’s got a bunch of shady friends who hang around. Drugs, I think.”

She dropped into his lap. “Only reason I’ve avoided trouble is because he’s afraid of me, I think. If you look a little bit like Bettie Page, everyone assumes you’ve got a whip…”

Sherlock smiled. “That’s not a bad thing, is it? If it keeps Lloyd at bay…”

She moved to standing again, gyrating now, slowly, her hand brushing his full lips. How many times had John resisted the temptation to do just that, fucking cupid’s bow. He shifted in his chair.

“No, but it gives off the wrong impression, doesn’t it?” she asked, turning her back to Sherlock and winking at John. ”Don’t you think, John?”

John stuttered. “Pardon?”

She turned back to Sherlock and knelt before him. “ Looking like a top, when all you really want to do is to serve…”

Sherlock eyed her as if she were a crime scene. “Interesting, but not just yet, Darcy. Does Lloyd miss work often?”

“Yes.” She ran her hands along his thighs, just as Sherlock had done in the cab earlier.  ( “Has he seemed more nervous lately?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“Was he working yesterday afternoon?”

“Couldn’t tell you. I was off yesterday.” She ran her hands through her hair, and moved to the hypnotic beat of the music. “I can ask around, if you like.”

“Last question, and then I think I’ll get my money’s worth from this dance,” Sherlock said, “What does Lloyd look like?”

She arched her back, curving her body so low that her shoulders grazed the floor. Flexible, thought John. “Late forties. Average build. Balding. Tiny little prick, if I had to guess. Just like a thousand other blokes, I’m afraid. No tell-tale mole or tattoo to report.”

She sat up on her knees, and brought his hands to her chest “Interview over, then?”

“At long last,” said Sherlock, his voice shifting, dropping an octave, breathier now. She turned her back to him, leaning between his legs, and pulled his arms around her, letting him undo the top hook on her bustier.

John knew that was his cue to leave, but he felt glued to the spot, hypnotized, paralyzed, staring open-mouthed as the scene unfolded in front of him. Sherlock was kissing Darcy’s shoulder, and seemed to have forgotten that John was even there. Darcy appeared to enjoy the fact that she had an audience, and eyed him suggestively as Sherlock removed each of the remaining 11 hooks on her bustier. When the material finally fell, her breasts were bare and perfect and she turned her back to John. That’s when Sherlock began whispering things to her, whispering loudly enough for John to hear, and the doctor suppressed a moan, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands.

 “I want your hands on me.”, Sherlock said. “Now.”

If he closed his eyes, it was easy for John to imagine that Sherlock was talking to him instead of her, and he pictured himself in her place, on his knees, fumbling with the button on Sherlock’s pants and edging that zip down. When he opened his eyes, John caught his first real glimpse of Sherlock’s cock, longer than expected, but narrower than John’s, pale and flawless. When Darcy placed her hand around it, both John and Sherlock shivered at the exact same moment.

That’s when Sherlock realized that John was still in the room, and he locked eyes with his flatmate, a look of understanding passing between them. Sherlock continued to stare at John, over Darcy’s shoulder, while she remained oblivious to the sudden shift in his attention.

“Touch yourself…” Sherlock said, and both Darcy and John did as he asked, but John was the only one who blushed. John’s heart pounded in his chest. Christ, was he really doing this? He rubbed his cock through his clothing, and Sherlock’s bluegraygreen eyes were watching him do it, fuck.

“Can you make yourself cum for me?” Sherlock asked, curiously, and while both Darcy and John had nodded in response, it had been a question for John alone.

“Cum for me, then, I want to watch you.” Sherlock’s cock had swollen in response to the new developments in the room, and he took himself in hand, watching John touch himself. Darcy’s eyes were closed in concentration, and John just…panicked - the realisation of where he was and what he was doing just came crashing down, overwhelming him. He mouthed an apology to Sherlock and ran from the suite to the loo down the hall.

John hadn’t had a panic attack since his first few weeks back from Afghanistan. He tried to steady his breathing, taking deep breaths to pull himself back from the brink. He heard his therapist’s voice in his ear, and tried to remember the four steps she’d taught him, four steps to ending an attack, but couldn’t remember the third, fucking hell. The room spun, but whether it was from panic or from the beers he’d had, he wasn’t sure and John dropped his head between his knees to get back in control.

“Jesus,” John breathed. “Fuck me.”

When he could finally steady himself, he rinsed his face with cold water from the tap, and he stared into the mirror. He was disgusted with himself for staying, and even more disgusted that he’d run. His cock ached, still thick from wanting. He couldn’t even consider what the fallout of this whole experience was going to be…

He dried his face and hands, and walked out into the hallway, adjusting his erection, hands still trembling, but otherwise keeping it together. He exhaled. Time to get Sherlock and go home, fallout be damned.

And that’s when he saw it: a framed and fading poster with the heading “Welcome to Player’s East!”. It was a tired attempt at cheery customer service - especially odd in an establishment of this sort – and it featured a photograph of a balding middle-aged man, smiling for the camera. He looked strangely familiar to John, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d gone to school with the smiling man, or maybe knew him from the army? Curiously, he leaned in to read the plaque emblazoned below the picture   and that’s when John realized he was looking at a picture of the club’s manager - Louis Lloyd himself.

“Motherfucker,” said John, putting two plus two together, and he fumbled for his phone, taking a snap. He ran into the Champagne Room, excited and ready to share the news, but when the door swung open, the room was empty. Sherlock and Darcy were gone.

“They left, mate” said the bouncer, who had followed him into the room, “and they left together.”

“Mother _fucker!_ ” John repeated. The goddamn bastard had left him once again, even after all that had just happened. He lifted his phone once more, tapping out a text and attaching a picture.

**Louis Lloyd IS Chad Wilson. You’re fucking welcome. – j**

He turned to the bouncer. “Right. Call me a taxi, then?”

 

*****

_**9:06pm** _

_The taxi pulled to a stop in front of 221B, and all John wanted was to go home, have a wank and sleep this night off, once and for all. He paid the cabbie and exited the car, fumbling with his keys in the relative darkness. It wasn’t until he approached the door that he noticed a figure sitting on the steps outside._

_John stopped, and pinched the bridge of his nose, a quiet chuckle rising from his throat. Of course it was him. How could this day have ended any other way?_

_“Chad Wilson’s alive.”_

_“I know.”_

_John’s keys jingled in his hand. “Look, if you’re waiting for Sherlock, I really don’t know when he’ll be back…”_

_“Did he leave you behind?” The figure stood up and stepped out of the darkness. “He used to do that to me, you know, all the damn time.”_

_John shot him an amused, bitter smile, and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Oh, fuck this day. You should go home, Victor.”_

_“I should,” he said. “If you want me to leave, I will.”_

_John closed his eyes and tried to breathe. He was tired and angry with Sherlock for leaving him, still reeling from his almost-panic attack and still a little drunk. He realized he’d been half-hard for most of the day, and the bloody persistent ache still remained._

_All told, John Watson had reached the end of a very long day._

_“Come in, then, if you’re staying, Victor.” He said, quietly, as he opened the door. “I’ll make us some tea.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know.  
> I /know/.  
> But remember: "The course of true love never did run smooth."  
> As I've said before, trust your Auntie Vex and enjoy the ride...
> 
>  
> 
> ***End-Note Extra***
> 
> Not a lot of notes this time, but here goes...
> 
> \- BDSM 101 stuff: if you're curious about "subspace", this site gives a pretty damn good explanation of what it is (it also explains aftercare and subdrop, too, which we'll likely get to sometime later in this story) - [Subspace link](http://bit.ly/OTL3K1)
> 
> \- Wanna know what song was Darcy dancing to? [This one!](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BH0l2E8EAzA) (RIP Mark Sandman)
> 
> That's all for this week -- see you in September!  
> vex.


	10. "Obvious"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s 1AM – do you know where your John is?
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, kids.  
> Story took an unexpected turn for me last week and had to rethink things.  
> I shall endeavor to be quicker with my porn in the future! ;-p
> 
>  
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr!](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/)

 

 John’s back slammed into the bedroom wall, his legs wrapped around Victor’s waist, his mouth devouring the American’s. A hand slid down his throat and caressed it, pressing gently, then a bit harder, then harder still until John could only squeak in response. His brain had long since ceased processing coherent thoughts.

He was…overwhelmed.

He was…overcome.

He was…completely and totally over the moon.

It was one in the morning, and Victor had woken him up with a kiss and a growl.

“Get up, Johnny-Boy,” Victor grinned, pulling on his hair sharply, “the night’s still young.”

John had spent twenty years on the verge of having sex the way he wanted it – it was always “very nearly”, but never “quite right”. When he was 16, his girlfriend agreed to being tied up, but made a face when John suggested she reciprocate. At Uni, an enthusiastic but inexperienced partner once sent John to the hospital with a dislocated shoulder…needless to say, he never really trusted her after that.

And then there was the whole mess with Dev…

Dev Singh had been another doctor in his Regiment in Afghanistan, a proper dominant with big, brown doe-eyes and a penchant for complicated ropework. After a year of working side-by-side, he and John had become lovers. Their relationship was mostly made up of stolen moments in the surgery, in linen closets and back rooms, fear of discovery limiting the kind of play they both wanted. The RAMC didn’t prevent them from making their relationship more public, but they didn’t need to – the boys did that all on their own. The fact of the matter was, John still bristled at being labeled “gay” (because he wasn’t gay, dammit), and Dev was deeply closeted, terrified that word would get back to his very traditional parents. They never did find out, but Dev would end it with John, suddenly and absolutely, the moment his mother found a match for him in England, a lovely female pediatrician who was looking to start a family of her own.

After all that, who would have thought John would come the closest to what he was looking for with a pikey Yank in thrift store clothes?

Not that he was wearing any clothes at all, at the moment – and even John had to admit, the effect was even more staggering than it had been the night before. He’d never been a fan of muscle-bound men, preferring his Doms to be pretty and vicious, more mental powerhouses than physical ones, but the last five hours with Victor certainly made him question that bias. John was compact, but definitely not a lightweight, and yet, Victor had lifted him easily, biceps flexing, tattoos rippling with a light sheen of sweat, just like an action star in a Hollywood movie.

“Jesus Christ,” thought John, “How is this happening to me?”

Victor pressed a finger, and then two against John’s still slightly stretched hole. “What do you want, Johnny?”

“You, oh god, you…”

“Again?” Victor bit his lip and looked up into his eyes, for John’s eyeline was higher than his, perched as he was on Victor’s hips. “Third time tonight, you dirty little fuck…think you can make me cum again?”

John closed his eyes, collapsing back against the wall, pressing the small of his back forward, willing Victor’s fingers to move deeper inside. He nodded. “Yessir, I can try.”

“You’re going to need to show me a little more initiative if you want to cum.”

“Need to cum, sir…let me…earn it…”

“Earn it?” Victor asked, amusement in his voice. “Well, look at that. Look what that word did to your cock, you filthy boy.“

His cock bobbed higher, and the hair on John’s forearms stood on end, chilled by the magic words. “Yessir, oh god, want to be good…”

“Secret unlocked, Johnny.” Victor crooned into his ear. “’Good’ boys have to earn it, don’t they?”

John nodded and groaned loudly. Victor’s thick fingers probed into him, scissoring him wider, goddamn. “Tell me, John. There was an injury – to your leg, right?”

“No, to my shoulder. The leg was…”

“Yes? Quicker, please.“

“The leg was…all in my head, sir.”

“And it’s better now?”

“Yessir.” John said. “Sherlock fixed it.”

“Good.” Victor stepped back, releasing him from the wall. “On your knees, in the corner, wait for me. If the pose becomes painful to your injuries, real or imagined, stretch out on your stomach, clear?”

“Crystal, Sir.”

Victor closed the door behind him and then all was silent. John kneeled alone in his room and contemplated a stray spot of paint on the electrical outlet, the cobwebs that had sprung up since his last cleaning, and the ache in his cock, in his thighs. 

He also contemplated Victor. How had John ended up here, so thoroughly bedded by a man he’d thought he despised? Tempting as it was, John was long past blaming any of this on the drink, or on Sherlock, even. This was all his own doing, thanks to his own blinding need.

Because need was what had started this, long before Victor showed up at his doorstep. For the hundredth time that night, John wondered what would have happened if he had stayed in that Champagne Suite with Sherlock. Would he have taken him in the club? Would he have ended up right where he was right now, but with Sherlock instead of Victor? Maybe he would have been invited to Darcy’s, and he imagined himself serving beside her, the two taking turns at pleasing Sherlock, perhaps doing things to one another, both pleasant and cruel, for his amusement, fuck, that got him going…

Then again, maybe nothing would have happened. Maybe he would have done precisely what Sherlock asked of him in that moment and then been abandoned in exactly the same manner – oh, that, _that_ would have been awful.

Either way, he certainly wouldn’t have ended up here, with Victor.  And for all that Victor was or wasn’t, John wouldn’t have wanted to miss this experience. For the first time in his life, he was playing with someone who knew what the fuck he was doing and more importantly, didn’t feel the need to apologize for doing it. That was a definite first for John, and excitement burned in his belly, wondering what Victor would do next.

*****

 

Sherlock left Darcy’s flat with a pleasing ache in his shoulders, just in time to bump into one of his favorite Irregulars, who slipped him a folded bit of paper in exchange for a crisp £20 note

“Nicely done,” Sherlock said, under his breath. “He home, then?”

“No, he’s down the pub still, but it’s almost closing time.” And as quickly as he’d appeared, the boy was gone, faded into the shadows of the mews next door.

Sherlock headed for the main road and hailed a taxi. On the way, he checked his phone. No message from John since the last one, and no explanation of where he’d gone in the meantime. Sherlock’s chewed on his lip, worrying a place raw over what had happened in the Champagne Suite, and whether he’d even have a flatmate by the time he got home. It had been foolish to say what he’d said, to John of all people. A complete and utter miscalculation. Stupid.

And yet, he’d thought he’d seen something…

…but clearly not, since the mere suggestion of it had literally sent the Doctor running.

Embarrassed, Sherlock had left immediately with Darcy, because he could, because she was so clearly willing, because she would help him forget about the many lines he’d just crossed with John. As soon as Sherlock had received John’s text about Lloyd, he’d messaged his network to track the man down, and while the Irregulars got to work, Sherlock passed the time in Darcy’s bedroom, with her and the two-tailed tawse she kept just for special occasions.  

But now it was late, and he was alone – thank god for the case. He’d check out Lloyd and then go home and patch things up with John as needed.  

“Unless…” he mused, and picked up his phone…

**On Lloyd’s trail. Meet me at the address below, posthaste. SH**

He hit send, with the firm understanding there was no real need for John to get out of bed and drag himself across town in the middle of the night, not for a simple stake out. But Sherlock thought it might be best for their first face-to-face contact after the evening’s earlier gaffe to be professional, and for the two men to address the issue and resolve it sooner, rather than later.

Would it work? Maybe not. For all he knew, John might be sleeping. But if not, the case might lure him out, with its implied promise of a thrilling chase in the dead of night. Oh yes, thought Sherlock, he knew his John.

Sherlock paused. “His” John? Oddly possessive, that -- and Sherlock briefly wondered what depths of his psyche he’d pulled it from -- but the thought coincided with his arrival at the pub, so Sherlock put it out of his mind as he entered the establishment and focused on the search for Lloyd.

*****

 

In the kitchen of 221B, Victor gathered a few simple supplies for the fun to come – nothing fancy, just some medical tape, some chopsticks, a handful of rubber bands, a hairbrush, a few bottles of water, a box of biscuits that had been left out on the counter, for sustenance, and a little something he’d found hanging near the front door.

As Victor made his way out of the kitchen, the Doctor’s mobile chimed from its place on the sitting room table, signaling a text message. Victor paused long enough to see who was trying to reach John, and smirked at the name on the screen.

“He’s always so available, isn’t he, Sherlock? Let’s see what happens when John’s a little _less_ available, hmm?” he said, and turned the phone off with a flourish before exiting to the upstairs.

 

*****

John couldn’t see the clock from where he was, but it seemed like Victor had been gone forever. The waiting time hadn’t done much to quell John’s desire, but it had allowed him to surface a bit, and to start feeling a little foolish about kneeling on the floor of his bedroom, staring into a corner. He was still hard, and an itchy thought crept into his brain.

 _Who knows how long he’s going to be gone_? _If you’re quick, he might never know…_

John reached his hand to his cock and…oh, fuck, perfect. He leaned forward from his kneeling position on the floor, bracing himself with one arm while the other stroked fast and firm. He thought of Victor calling him names, making him beg, pinning him to the wall, his hands in his hair when he sucked him, the way he’d made him gag around his cock, such pretty pictures, goddamn, and then it’s all Sherlock, suddenly, and his alabaster penis in that darkened room, with Darcy’s hand on it, fisting it, and the thrum of the music matching the thrum of John’s cock and Sherlock’s looking at him, telling him to touch himself, wanting him to cum for him, oh, god --

“What the fuck, John?” The door opened suddenly, and Victor was there with a box in his hand and a disappointed look on his face. “Did I tell you that you could touch yourself?”

Freeze. Sit up. Eyes on the corner, fuck… “No. Sir.”

“Didn’t think so.” He slid the box to the floor, but kept his eyes on John. “Slut.”

The word was a turn-on for John, but this time it came tinged with disapproval. He shifted under Victor’s gaze.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Not yet, but you will be.”

John heard the sound of leather against fabric, a familiar sound, and he subtly cut his eyes to the right, keeping them down, trying to track what was happening behind him. He felt Victor’s hand pinch the back of his neck and pull him upwards.

“On the bed, on all fours, now,” he said, and pushed him toward the end of the bed. John nearly lost his nerve when he saw the thick leather belt in Victor’s hands. It had been a long time since he’d been so much as spanked, even -- he damn sure knew he wasn’t ready for the belt. John swallowed thickly.

“Panicking, slut?” Victor’s voice drawled in his ear, that cowboy tone he’d recognized at Sherlock’s door, low and dangerous. “Consequences are a bitch, Doc…”

John’s breath hitched as he felt the leather lightly graze his skin. He held his breath when it finally broke contact, pulse racing, and braced himself for its inevitable, biting stroke.

*****

 

It was a typical neighborhood pub -- a few fruit machines, a video jukebox featuring too much Kylie Minogue and a few small televisions locked to a sports programme with the audio on mute. It was busy, and open late for a pub on Sunday. Sherlock’s eyes swept the room, looking for the man in the image on his phone.

It didn’t take long to find him, sitting on a barstool, all smiles, deep in conversation with the barmaid. She was a forty-ish blousy boozer, from the looks of her, likely somewhat of a looker in her prime, now just hard around the edges, her hair a particular shade of red that nature never intended. A little too long between drinks for her, too, Sherlock thought, making note of the slight tremor in her hand as she poured a draft. Sherlock sat down at the opposite end of the horseshoe-shaped bar and watched them with interest.

Chad Wilson, aka Louis Lloyd, wore a ring on his right middle finger, big gold ring, big jewel in the middle, red, garnet, probably, best he could afford. Ostentatious, clearly likes attention, his loud voice and posture reinforcing the fact, brave for a man in his position. He’d lost a great deal of hair since the days he called himself Chad, and middle-age had added both girth to his waistline and wrinkles to his expanding forehead. He was teasing the barmaid, telling a joke that Sherlock couldn’t hear from where he sat, but he thought it safe to assume that the joke was very likely a) pornographic and b) not in the least bit funny.

She laughed anyway.

He stood, and when she turned to serve another customer, Sherlock watched him grab her arm – a little too roughly. Her jovial expression darkened ever-so-slightly as he pulled her in to him and whispered in her ear. She nodded, and he stood up, dropped some notes on the table and headed out.

Sherlock debated following Wilson out the door when a rather intoxicated football fan from a nearby table walked up beside Sherlock and shouted his order to the barmaid.

“Oi, Fulvia! Another round for the table, yeah?”

At the mention of the barmaid’s name, Sherlock smiled bitterly – criminals really are incredibly stupid, sometimes – and held up a tenner. Might as well buy the lady a drink and have a little chat…

*****

 

The stroke never came. Instead, Victor lashed the leather around John’s lower thighs, pulling the belt tightly, the metal belt buckle cold and digging into his flesh.

Victor chuckled. “Relax - I’m not going to belt you first time out, John, much as I would enjoy it.”  He delivered a wincing slap to John’s arse, as punctuation. “But I do like seeing you strung up like that, helpless.” He ran a finger between the belt and John’s skin, tugging on it, pulling his hips on one direction and then the other, and then reached for an item from the box on the floor. “Let’s make you more helpless, hmm? I thought that this might make an excellent blindfold.”

John recognized the item in Victor’s hand. “That’s, uh, Sherlock’s, isn’t it? His scarf, one of his older ones?”

“Is it?” Victor asked, innocently, looking at it. “I guess it does look like one of his.” He sniffed it, experimentally. “Yeah, smells like him, don’t you think?”

He held it up to John’s nose with one hand, as if scenting a bloodhound, and ran his other hand along the cleft of John’s arse. John, still on all fours, tried not to squirm at the overpowering (and frankly, unfair) stimulus, the combination of Sherlock’s scent (his particular brand of soap, layered with coffee, chemicals, and a touch of nicotine) paired with the sensation of Victor’s hand, it was so goddamned good, so mind-numbingly perfect and then suddenly so...incredibly wrong somehow.

“Wait, stop, Victor, I…” John protested, but still continued to squirm against Victor’s hand. This was wrong, he should…oh, dear god…

“You know how to tell me to stop, John.” He delivered another sharp slap against John’s backside, making him flinch. “You remember your safeword? Answer me.”

John nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

“Good. Use it if you have to.” A moment passed, while he waited to see if John would speak. When John remained silent, Victor nodded, and tied the scarf around his eyes. “Now, what’s my name?”

John shivered, swept away by his remaining senses. “Sir.”

At the mention of the word, Victor pushed John’s head to the bed, knocking his arms out from under him, suddenly brutal.  John moaned, the carelessness of the push, the shame of his position, his arse high in the air, skin still stinging from the slap.

“Yes, Sir, indeed...” Victor tugged on the belt to roll him higher up on his shoulder. John wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but Victor’s voice sounded slightly different, the ‘R’ seemed less hard, the words seemed slightly more clipped and the tone of it was deeper. “Now, where were we? Oh, right. Touching yourself, in my absence, without my permission.” He gripped John’s cock, miming the punishable action, prompting John to cry out. “Definitely deserves punishment, wouldn’t you agree?”

John’s mind reeled. The smell of Sherlock surrounded him, and the strange voice persisted.

“Are we agreed, John? Answer me.”

“A-agreed.”

“And how do you suggest I punish you?”

“S-something…that hurts, sir.”

There was a familiar, impatient exhale. “Obvious.”

John’s breath hitched as he realized what was going on. First Sherlock’s scent, now Sherlock’s voice, fucking hell, this was fucking twisted, but goddamn.... John felt like he was going to pass out.

“You with me, John?” Mouth close to his ear, fingers on his neck, checking his pulse.

“I’m…I’m fine, uh, Sher, I mean…Sir.”

“Brilliant. You really _are_ with me, now, aren’t you?” John practically purred beneath him, beneath this imposter, this impossible mimic, right down to the rhythm of his speech. “I’m going to start small with you, as far as punishment goes. Just a simple hairbrush spanking, ever had one of those, John? Bristles in or out, I haven’t decided yet. But before we get there…”

John heard the snap-cap of a lube top open, and then hands were pulling his arse apart roughly, slippery fingers at his hole, and then something unyielding pressing against the inside. “This is actually one of my own, John, nicked from the trunk in my closet downstairs. Small, but quite effective when paired with punishment. Pushes deeper inside with every slap…”

He secured the plug all the way, making John grunt and twist against him.

“Oh, god,” he panted, “Please, sir. Fuck me...”

“As if you’ve earned that right.” He said snidely, and rubbed the cool flat end of the brush against John’s arse. “Ten with each side of the brush, John, on each cheek, for a total of 40 -- and you bloody well better count. Understood?”

“Y-yes sir…”

The man's slick left hand grasped John’s cock, and it was clear that John wouldn’t make it through the punishment without cumming. John groaned, tensing, cock throbbing, the scent and sound of Sherlock all around him.

When the slaps came, they came hard and fast, with little predictability. John’s body writhed to escape the onslaught, but the binding around his thighs was just restrictive enough to limit his movement. Every flex of thigh muscle pushed against the plug in his arse, and every slap pressed it a little farther inside. When John missed a count, the count had to be restarted, but it was a mistake John only made once.

By the time they’d reached the bristle side of the brush, tears had formed in John’s eyes, and his cock was leaking so much that lube was no longer needed. The strokes kept perfect pace with the slaps, and it was all too much for John.

“Sir, please, I’m going to cum.”

“Can you count through the cumming, fucktoy?”

“Yes sir…”

“Confident in that?”

“Yes, please, Sherlock, fuck…”

“Then cum for me. Now.”

John lost control at 32 slaps in, cumming on the bedsheets and on Sher- no, Vic – no, Sir’s hand, and on himself, relieved and relaxed and completely undone.

*****

 

 

“Hello…Fulvia, is it?”  For the second time that night, Sherlock reached into his stock kit of “harmless” smiles, this time choosing the smile of a visiting businessman, poised and polished and exceedingly polite. “When you have a moment, I’d like to order.”

Fulvia returned his smile with an equally terrifying one of her own, taking in Sherlock’s clothes, his hands, his face. She hummed her approval. “It would be my pleasure, love.”

Sherlock leaned in, placing his elbows on the bar so that he might speak confidentially. “Scotch on the rocks. And one for yourself, if you like.”

Her smile grew. “Well, aren’t you the big shot, thanks for that, my darling. Don’t get many gentlemen who know how to tip!” She deftly filled two short glasses with ice, and poured a generous portion of the top shelf brand in both. “In town on business?”

“Down from Birmingham.”

“Thought I heard an accent.”

“Always gives me away.”

 She eyed him with interest. “We don’t get many visitors here, not exactly ‘touristy’, this part of town, is it?”

“Safe enough, though?”

“You’ll still want to lock your hotel door, love.” Fulvia placed her hand on his arm, and shot him a knowing glance. “That is, assuming your hotel is somewhere…nearby?”

Sherlock experimented with a shy smile. “Yeah, just across the street. Not far at all.”

Fulvia squeezed his arm. “Best to lock your door, then.  Can’t be too safe, not in this neighborhood. You know this very pub was robbed, not six months ago?”

“You’re kidding!” Sherlock experimented with a genuine imitation expression of concern. “Anyone hurt?”

Fulvia dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “No, it happened after we’d closed for the night. They broke in, cracked the safe, stole the night’s take and some valuables. Nicked our entire stock of jack Daniels, too, if you can believe that!”

Sherlock shook his head in faux sympathy.  “I suppose your husband was upset?”

Fulvia wrinkled her brow. “Who?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is he your boyfriend, then?” Sherlock was quite good at feigning embarrassment. “I meant the gentlemen you were talking to over there. Thought you looked like a nice couple.”

 “Who? Louis? That naff berk?” She howled with laughter, and Sherlock had to admire her burgeoning thespian talent. “No, he’s just a regular, and one of my more difficult ones at that. Likes to think he’s posh, just because he manages a gentlemen’s club, if you know what I mean.”

Sherlock nodded, and tried to look appropriately abashed. “I see.”

“Funny thing is,” she said, pulling a Guinness for another patron as she talked. “He works all day in a bar, and then he hangs out here every night. Loony. When I leave here, another bar is the last place I want to go.”

“I know the feeling.” A bit of genuine reflection from Sherlock, as he considered the fact that this pub was the third drinking establishment he’d visited in the last 12 hours. “Every night, though, really? Like, this weekend, he was here every night – Friday, Saturday _and_ Sunday?”

Fulvia paused, considering the question. “Saturday and Sunday, yeah, but now that I think of it, he wasn’t here Friday, good for him. Guess he has to sober up sometime.”

Sherlock drained the last of his drink. “And that’s my cue, I think. Meeting in the morning, after all. Thanks for the conversation, Fulvia, you’re a lovely lady.”

“Oh, you’re more than welcome, my dear, anything for a man as delicious as you, hope you don’t mind me saying so.” She waggled her fingers at him. “Come again, handsome!”

 *****

 

 

The Doctor’s breathing returned to normal by the time Victor had removed the plug and released John’s thighs.

“Okay for me to untie the scarf, Johnny, or do you want to stay in there for a little bit longer?”

John sighed happily. “I’m good. You can take it off.”

Victor untied it, and let it fall. John lifted his eyes to meet Vic’s. “That was…bloody remarkable. How are you able to do that?”

Victor smiled at him, and handed him one of the bottles of water. “I’ve been friends with Sherlock for a long time. Give it a few years and you and I will be doing dueling Sherlock imitations on the couch at Christmas.”

John marveled at Victor. “That was, possibly, the weirdest, kindest thing anyone has ever done for me, you know.” He blushed. “Hottest, too.”

“Right back atcha.”

John eyed the box at his bedside, and routed through it curiously, picking up a pair of the chopsticks. “Other than Lo Mein, should I ask what these are for?”

“You should,” Victor growled, “But I’d rather save them for next time.”

Next time? John was rather alright with that, especially given the fact that the way things stood right now, they were a bit…uneven. John felt the need to repay him in kind, to make him feel as good as he felt right now.

“Are you…I mean, can I…?”

“No, I’m good for now.” Victor settled into the bed beside him. “I’m an old man, remember?”

“Old man, my arse…” John ran his hands against Victor’s thigh. “Listen, that…thing you did, that trick with your voice, that was fantastic, but you know I like you when you’re being _you_ , too, right?”

“Man, I think you made that pretty clear earlier this evening.” He turned over on his side and propped his head up with his hand. “And I like you, too, John Watson. I already told you that once today, if you remember.”

“How did you know…that I would respond to…”

 “To Sherlock? Well, I have eyes.”

“That obvious?”

“Not to Sherlock.”

“So, what do I do?”

Victor turned onto his side, propping his hand under his head. “Well, it just so happens I’ve been leading a little underground campaign in your favor, Johnny, ever since I realized what was going on here.”

“You – what?”

“Yeah, I’ve been laying the groundwork for you, man.” grinned Victor. “Consider me your fairy fucking godfather, John -- bibbidi bobbidi boo, motherfucker!”

 

*****

 

 

Sherlock made his way back to 221B, texting Lestrade the whole way home, updating him on the revelation regarding Wilson’s current state of existence, his alias, his employer and his work address. Sherlock felt happy about the events of the evening as far as the case went, and it had helped him to forget his massive misstep with John, for a little while at least.

He checked his messages again, but his flatmate still hadn’t responded. He must’ve come straight home and gone to bed, Sherlock thought, with a pang of regret. He’d really hoped to settle things between them before morning.Things were always more awkward by the light of day, after all.

He opened the door and entered the flat, leaving his keys, along with the photo he’d borrowed from Lily, at the door.

Two steps in, though, and Sherlock knew something was not right.

…every light in the flat was on, first of all, which completely ran counter to John’s frugal nature…

…in the sitting room, a painting was askew on the wall, as if someone or something had glanced it in passing…

…John’s mobile had been turned off, when John usually leaves it on and charging overnight…

…in the kitchen, the utensils drawer was ajar by about seven centimeters, just wide enough for Sherlock to immediately observe that four chopsticks had gone missing…

…in Sherlock’s bedroom, his closet door was open, and the carpet pattern under his trunk showed that it had been moved slightly in his absence…

…finally, and perhaps the most damning evidence of all, was Victor’s brown leather jacket, which lay draped over the side of the couch.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and stood stock-still in the center of the sitting room, the flat spinning around him, breathing deeply, working his jaw, mandible muscles flaring, sorting out the possibilities and probabilities, his deductions based on the evidence around him, every observation leading to one, inevitable and regrettable conclusion…

…and that’s when he calmly picked up his keys, along with the photograph from Lily and walked right out the door, letting it close softly behind him.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***End-Note Extras***
> 
> \- Curious about Victor’s tattoos? [Here’s one of them](http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l41puldNh41qzabkfo1_500.jpg) – it’s on his right bicep (flying away from him): A cookie for anyone who recognizes where this is from!
> 
> \- Pub Hours: Pubs in London close at 11pm on Sundays, but there are exceptions. I highly doubt the owners of this particular pub would have qualified for an exception, so I’m figuring they’re operating illegally after hours and no one gives a crap what they do in their shitty little bar (at least, not until someone gets knifed or pulls a DUI).
> 
> \- Kylie Monogue: I don’t understand her power. When I lived in London, a thousand years ago, every pub in the city had a video jukebox that played [this](http://bit.ly/OCIYO) in an endless loop: I rather like thinking it’s the same way still, with just a new Minogue hit plugged in every couple of years…
> 
> \- Wanna know what pornographic & not funny joke Chad, aka Louis, told Fulvia? You asked for it: 
> 
> _“So, my buddy’s got three girlfriends, right? One of ‘em’s named Doe, one’s named Ray and the other’s named Me. All three of them want to do something special with him, so they set up some dates._  
>  _Three days ago, Doe kissed him._  
>  _Two days ago, Ray fucked him._  
>  _And yesterday, well, who sucked his dick?”_
> 
> \- [The scarf](http://wearsherlock.tumblr.com/post/10038897407/paul-smith-navy-cashmere-scarf-as-worn-by).
> 
> \- [Sherlock’s soap](http://bit.ly/SCbruV), in case you were wondering.
> 
> \- About those [chopsticks](http://bit.ly/16bEOa3)…(Yes, Victor is a dirty, dirty boy…):
> 
> -And last, but certainly not least: Look what [Sketchybadger](http://sketchybadger.tumblr.com/) drew: [an illustration](http://i.imgur.com/jphEud8.jpg) for this fic (with close-ups [here](http://i.imgur.com/fRibbuR.jpg), and [here](http://i.imgur.com/hDoOHOE.jpg)) and it [kicks ass](http://i.imgur.com/5EJfRLP.jpg)! Isn't she awesome? Go give her virtual hugs, now!


	11. "This Is Not About The Sex"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Sherlock gets angry and Molly gets an apology...anything else would be giving it away!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Follow me on Tumblr!](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/)

****

****

Sherlock made it all the way up Marylebone Street before he spoke a single word or uttered a single sound, his lips pinched together, breathing deeply, nostrils flaring. He pulled his coat tightly around him, hands in pockets, and openly glared at anyone and everyone who dared cross his path.

Sherlock _seethed_.

Somewhere around Edgware Road tube stop, however, the dam broke.

“Stupid, gullible, predictable, ridiculous, gall beyond COMPREHENSION!” He shouted, to no one in particular, to the sodding sky and the bloody fucking moon. He kicked an abandoned free newspaper dispenser near the entrance of the station and then kicked it again for good measure, just to hear it rattle. He sputtered, hands gesturing wildly, the picture of a mad man. It was 2:30 in the morning, and the few passing pedestrians he did encounter deftly crossed the street to avoid him. Who could blame them?

He snatched at his mobile and began to text, but stopped to erase the message before he finished, putting it deliberately back into his pocket.

He pulled it out again, murderously punching the buttons, only to delete it again with angry flourish.

He exhaled, tried to calm himself, set his jaw to text, thumbs flying across the small keyboard, stopping only to make a gutteral noise and finally hurl that fuck of a Blackberry against the tiled tube station wall. He took some small comfort in watching the hated thing shatter into a dozen pieces…

He knew he was furious, but the precise reason for his anger was harder to parse. Yes, Victor had clearly violated his trust, broken into his trunk, nicked something, a violation, but what else was new? The Yank had been a thief when he met him, it wasn’t the first time he’d “borrowed” something from Sherlock, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. As for John, there was no need for anger there, either -- quite the contrary, in fact – it was Sherlock who had owed _him_ an apology, not the other way around.

So, it had to be the sex, then, that had sparked his anger – because make no mistake: the painting, the chopsticks, the _trunk_ , there was no denying the evidence – sex had definitely been on tonight at 221B…

_(…and perhaps into the morning, even, knowing Victor as he did…)_

 Sherlock concentrated on breathing. Sex couldn’t possibly be the reason for his reaction. He had no claim on Victor, nor on John. In fact, if John had agreed to sex with Victor, it couldn’t be anything but good news for Sherlock. It would certainly make dealing with the both of them easier if John wasn’t constantly grinding his axe in Victor’s general direction.

_(Except…)_

Except…if John had willingly slept with Victor – as was most likely, since Victor refused non-con on general principle – that meant…that meant…

_(…that I’d been right.)_

It meant that Sherlock’s “utter miscalculation” in the club _hadn’t_ been a miscalculation at all, that John _had,_ in fact, been aroused by the scene in the Champagne Suite and that Sherlock _hadn’t_ just imagined the hardness in John’s trousers, or the want in his eyes – want for sex, for domination, for…

_(…me.)_

Sherlock froze in the middle of the sidewalk, suddenly unable to move and barely able to breath. His heart pounded in his ears, but all else was quiet, a still moment of clarity amid his chaos. Even outside of his body, the streets were empty, the wind had calmed and the stars winked at him silently from above. For the first time in a long time, he felt as if he could focus and think, but all he could think of was…

_(…John.)_

John had…wanted him. And a thousand tiny moments flooded his memory, a thousand small sparks from the last four months, John touching his hand in passing, smiling at him from across the breakfast table, his intoxicating praise, his endless cups of tea, his careful tending of Sherlock’s various bumps and bruises, his _buying the bloody milk_ when other flatmates would have told him to bugger off months ago. John: stammering whenever Sherlock got close, blushing whenever Sherlock touched his shoulder, looking away whenever Sherlock was in the slightest state of undress. It explained so very much, including John’s initial kneejerk distaste for Victor.

The realization hit Sherlock like a brick, and he felt a sudden wave of loss, palpable and real, for something he’d never even known was there. How _could_ he have known? John had never spoken up, never said a word.

_(John shouldn’t have had to say anything. You’re Sherlock fucking Holmes!.)_

He should have known. He should have been able to read those moments, sensed those moments, and he realized that he _would_ have been able to read the signs if John had been a bloody corpse on the ground, a mystery surrounded by blue and white police tape. Sherlock rarely gave the living the same kind of rapt attention he gave to the dead. He felt…

_(Stupid. Absurdly, pathetically…)_

“…stupid!” He said out loud, his voice echoing in the night.. Fucking feelings, messy, irrational, impossible to navigate around with any real confidence, particularly if your last name was Holmes. Case in point: just a few hours ago, John detested the American and everything he stood for. Now, he was sequestered upstairs with Victor and his fucking _chopsticks._ It was insipid, really, like some kinked-up romcom trope: boy meets boy, boy hates boy, boy fucks boy into submission. His lip curled…

_(Unbelievable…)_

Sherlock felt an old familiar bitterness wash over him, jealousy at how easily and quickly other people connect. He can mimic that skill, put on the right expression and say practiced things that make others feel liked and moderately at ease, but it’s not real. The only connections that have been real in his life, outside of family, have been with people persistent enough to push their way in. Victor. Alex, he supposed, once upon a time. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Molly. And now John…

The night had grown colder, and Sherlock felt a sudden chill. He reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his gloves, but instead, his fingers found the edge of Lily’s wooden picture frame. A realization blossomed, and the gloves were quickly forgotten.

_(Right then. Let’s get to work.)_

Sherlock stood a little taller now, taller than he’d been just a few minutes before, and when the wind picked up again, he changed his direction and began to walk, backtracking to Paddington Station, where he found a taxi ready and waiting.

“37 Wetherby Place, South Ken” he said firmly, a note of excitement in his voice, “ and cut through the park, it’s quicker.”  

*****

 

John woke with a start the next morning, later than usual.  The backs of his eyes hurt the way they did when he’d stayed up too late, and he realized, slowly, that his eyes weren’t the only part of him that hurt.

“Fuck me,” he groaned, stretching into the ache.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said a voice from across the room. John sat up to find Victor already dressed, sitting with a cup of Speedy’s coffee and looking out the window onto Baker Street. He winked at John, and walked over to him, handing him a cup. “If I remember, this house celebrates successful shagging with sugary stimulants…”

Christ, he’s charming, John thought, and accepted the cup. “Cheers.”

Victor flopped down beside him. “You doing okay, Johnny?”

 “Actually? I’m…really great,” John smiled, and took a tentative sip from the paper cup. “Of course, by the light of day, I must admit, I do find your good looks to be incredibly offensive – I mean, it’s off-putting, really, how attractive you are, and I—“

“Shut up,” Victor interrupted, kissing him, and John melted a little, before a sobering thought had him sitting up, mid-snog.

“You went to Speedy’s.”

“Yes?”

“You went out into the flat?”

“Yeah, had to get my coat.”

“Shit.”

Victor sighed. “He’s not home, John. I don’t think he’s been home since yesterday.”

The doctor’s face visibly relaxed, and he took a breath. “Good,” he said, pulling back the covers. “But you should probably go, all the same.”

“I should?”

“Well, don’t you think?” John quirked an eyebrow towards the flat downstairs. “How long has it been since you weathered one of his tantrums? I can tell you, it’s only been two days for me, and I’m still sweeping up the splinters. The crockery can’t take it, Victor…”

The older man laughed. “Do you actually think that if I leave now, he won’t find out about it? How long have you lived with him?”

“He’s not psychic, just observant. I’m sure if we tidy up a little…”

“Two words: mahogany stains. Making sure to wash our dishes and making me disappear aren’t going to keep Sherlock fucking –“

“—I’m just saying that –“

“—Holmes from figuring it out!”

They’d been speaking loudly, their voices layering over one another until it became obvious that Victor was right. John scrubbed a hand over his face. “So, what do we do?”

Victor shrugged. “Let him find out on his own. If he wants to make a big deal out of it, then I’ll buy you new crockery – just as soon as you tell me what the fuck crockery is.”

John laughed. Yanks. “You’re right. Of course. I’m sorry, I don’t want you to think that –“

“Jesus, stop apologizing, John, and just take off your pants …”

*****

 

Molly Hooper lived a quiet life with a predictable schedule. She woke at six each morning. Took the 8:17 train into Barts. Dinner was at seven, over telly. A telephone call to her mother, every night at nine.

Predictable. Quiet. As expected.

What she did not expect to find was Sherlock Holmes, loitering outside the morgue at nine o’clock in the morning.

“Sherlock? What are you doing out here?”

 “Waiting for you.”

“That’s a first. Forget your lockpick at home?” Molly quirked an eyebrow his way, opening the door and allowing him inside.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be silly --I picked my way in hours ago, but couldn’t find what I was looking for.”

Molly shook her head, shedding her wool coat at her desk and shrugging on a lab coat. The man was impossible. “Okay, what were you looking for, then?”

Sherlock leapt into action. “I need the report on Melinda Wilson, I need to see her body, and I’ll need a transparent medical ruler, a small one, for starters.”

“Hang on, slow down, Sherlock. Sherlock!” Molly said, her voice steadily rising to a shout.

He stopped in his tracks and turned to her. “What now?”

“There is no report.”

“Still?” Sherlock sighed. “I know you are short staffed here, Molly, but accident or no, you really should have completed her post mortem by now – “

“The post mortem was blocked.”

His eyes narrowed. “Blocked? By whom?”

“By the family.” She turned her computer to show him the file on her screen. “See? Blocked by family – Lily Wilson, know her?”

Sherlock nodded. “I do, indeed. Reason cited?”

“Yes…here – religious reasons.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers, and paced the neat tile floor. “We can look at her body, yes? Make exterior observations?”

Molly nodded. “Yes, we just can’t open her up or take fluids. Nothing invasive.”

“How long do we have the body?”

“What?”

“How long?!” Sherlock insisted.

“Funeral pickup’s not specified. She’s just on ice for now…”

“Get her out, then, Molly,” and Sherlock paused, reconsidered his tone, and tried again. “I’m sorry -- I mean, please, Molly. If you would.”

She crossed the room, smiling to herself. It marked the first time in their history that Sherlock Holmes had ever apologized to her. “God bless John Watson,” she thought, warmly. Under his influence, maybe Sherlock Holmes might become a real boy after all.

*****

 

John lay stretched out on the sofa at 221B, watching Spurs spank Arsenal. It had been a good day off from the surgery, all told. Waking up with Victor, a quick breakfast, a little telly, and a proper run through the park, with the Yank nipping at his heels to go faster -- that had been fun.  Back at the flat, he’d collapsed on the couch and flipped on the match. A nap, maybe? He’d see. His body still ached, from last night, from the run, from trying to keep up with the events of the last few days.

On the television, the announcer was shouting, and John closed his eyes, listening to the commentary with half an ear while replaying choice moments from this morning over and over in his mind. He shifted his hips, a small squirm that made last night’s bruises throb. His cock twitched, slightly. Exhale. Lovely…

“John.”

Sherlock. John opened his eyes with a start, to find his flatmate standing over him. “Sherlock. You’re home.”

He nodded, sharply.

John sat up, feeling instantly guilty. “Late night, then?”

“Indeed.” Sherlock carried a box that he placed on the floor. “Did you…get my texts?”

John nodded. “This morning, yeah. Sorry I wasn’t…I went to bed early last night.”

“I’d imagine so.” Sherlock said, lips tight.

John couldn’t figure out if the conversation was really as awkward as it felt. He cleared his throat. “So, Louis Lloyd. Didn’t see that coming, did --”

“Stop it, John.”

John Watson’s stomach flipped, Sherlock’s tone, unmistakeable. “I’m sorry?”

“Where is he?” Sherlock charged out into the hall, and shouted up the stairs to John’s room. “Victor?!”

Hearing no reply, he turned, and went back into the sitting room, into the kitchen, and stomped down the hall, to his own bedroom “Victor! I need you!”

John stood up and charged down the hallway after him. “Sherlock, you need to – “, he said, cut off by the appearance of Sherlock physically dragging Victor out of the shower, pushing him down the hallway, and past John.

“Goddammit, Sherlock, get your fucking hands off me, Jesus – “

“—don’t tell me what the fuck to do with my hands, Victor –“

“You little shit, pull me out of the shower?

They continued, standing toe to toe in the kitchen, talking over one another, voices louder, pushing, spitting cruelties and taking shots at one another, and it didn’t take long for John to have had enough.

“BOTH OF YOU, SHUT IT!” He shouted, moving between them, the soldier taking charge. “You,” he said, grabbing Sherlock by the lapels and pushing him into a kitchen chair. “You sit the fuck down. As for you,” he whirled around and pointed at Victor. “Dry off and get fucking dressed.”

Sherlock exhaled loudly from his place at the table, seething once more. If there was one thing that Sherlock disliked, it was being treated like a child. Victor reached for his jeans, which had last been left in a ball on the kitchen floor, and put them on. John, stood there, rubbing his forehead, adrenaline coursing through his veins and breathing deep.

“Okay,” John said, in an infinitely patient tone. “Can we all just talk about this like civilized people, please?”

Sherlock was defiant. Victor rolled his eyes. John crossed his arms. “Look, we’re all supposed to be adults here, this is obviously about the sex, about Victor and I, and –“

“This is _not_ about the sex.” Sherlock sputtered.

“This is _so_ about the sex, come on –“ started Victor.

“Sherlock, please, I –“ John intervened

“Fucking hell, Rabbit –“

“THIS IS NOT ABOUT THE SEX!” Sherlock shouted indignantly and launched himself at Victor, taking him by surprise and knocking him to the floor. Before John was able to pull him away, Sherlock reared back and delivered a solid right hook to the bridge of the Victor’s nose, the brilliant red blooming fast and furious. John scrambled to stop the bleeding.

Sherlock sat back down in the chair. “It’s not about the sex,” he said, definitively. “It’s about the case, and Victor, it’s time you told us _everything_.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***End-Note Extras***
> 
> Short one this time, everyone was too shouty for fun facts!
> 
> \- I won't tell you whose address Sherlock gives to the cabbie in the story, but I can tell you that in real life, it was _my_ address when I lived in London!
> 
> \- John worries about the [crockery!](http://mizhy.org/sinceretrading.co.in/assets/Crockery3.jpg)
> 
> \- Arsenal versus Spurs? Hopefully that is a match-up that would actually happen...I've no doubt Scrib will correct me, once she returns...


	12. "For All They Endure"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confronts Victor with some interesting evidence, Sherlock and John have a moment alone, and at NSY, Lestrade wonders if there are any doughnuts left...
> 
> (FYI, not much sexy in this one, I'm afraid, but three cheers for plot progression!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Follow me on Tumblr!](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/)

 

Sherlock held the cardboard box in his hand as he paced the sitting room, while John and Victor watched from the couch. Victor was still bleeding, and John was attempting to pull himself out of the bliss of his relaxing morning and into the moderately violent afternoon of Sherlock’s return. Good thing Victor could take a punch, and take it in stride – although he was still cranky about being dragged prematurely from his shower. John tended to Victor’s nose – bloody, broken, but easily set and taped – and worry formed itself into a knot in the doctor’s stomach.

What had Sherlock discovered last night? All of John’s first impressions of Victor came flooding back -- what if the items in that box confirmed them? What if he’d actually spent the last 16 hours in the company of a cold-blooded murderer?

_(Musn’t think about that. Not yet.)_

“Sherlock,” John asked. “Any chance we could get on with this without the Hercule Poirot-style dramatics?”

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look and turned to Victor. “Two nights ago, you hired John and I to investigate a murder that you’d witnessed, one that you seemed to know more about than you were willing to share.”

Victor looked up with a smirk, and dabbed his nose with a tissue. It reminded the detective of a scene in a movie he’d once liked, but he couldn’t quite place it. Sherlock continued.

“You wanted to play a game. I believe what I discovered last night and the day before has put me firmly in the lead.” Sherlock smiled tightly. “It started with a photograph…”

Sherlock removed Lily’s photo from the box, and put it on the coffee table in front of the two men. “Lily Wilson was kind enough to let me borrow this – do you remember, John, what I said to you that day?”

_(…smiling photo of Melinda, at just about Lily’s age. A candid party snap, taken with a Polaroid camera, the image long since gone green, but it was lovingly framed in spite of its poor quality._

_“Do you see?”  Sherlock asked...)_

John cleared his throat. “You asked me if I could see…”

“Yes, and you assumed I was talking about Melinda’s beauty, but I wasn’t.” Sherlock was actually _enjoying_ this, John realized. “I was trying to draw your attention to one specific detail in the photo. _This_ detail…”

Sherlock pointed to a part of the image. Amid the lifted glasses and smiling faces, in the corner of the picture was a pair of boot-clad feet, propped up on a hassock, and crossed at the ankles, left shoe over right.

“I realized, you see, that I’d seen those boots before. 1980’s US Military combat issue…”

Victor stirred. “…and available in every Army Navy store from California to Maine.”

Sherlock quirked a brow. “True enough, I suppose, but only one pair of those boots would likely have Joe Strummer’s autograph scrawled on the instep of the right shoe,” and at that, Sherlock removed said pair of boots from the cardboard box and placed them on the table, beside the photo. 

Victor stiffened. “You broke into my flat.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You broke into my trunk.”

John blushed at the mention of the trunk, and made a show of leaning in to examine the shoes. They were the boots Victor had propped up on the kitchen table at breakfast yesterday, when John returned from his encounter with Bridget. They were battered, well-worn, and did, in fact, sport The Clash legend’s signature, written in permanent silver marker. John looked again at Lily’s picture, and damned if you couldn’t see the faint tail of the autograph’s “J”-for-Joe peeking out from underneath the left shoe.

“You…really did know Melinda, then?” John asked, turning to Victor.

“Yeah,” Victor said, aiming for an off-hand air. “I knew her. But I know a lot of people.”

“Yeah, but you witnessed the _murder_ of this one.“ Sherlock said, firmly. “Melinda looks to be in her early twenties in that photo, dating it sometime around 1991, 1992 maybe?”

There was a pause. “1991,” Victor said.  “But, you know, this proves nothing. Back then I went to a lot of parties, it was part of my job. Half of London probably has a snap of me in these boots somewhere…”

Sherlock listened, quietly, and looked back into the box. “But not all of them would have worn this, now would they?”

He reached in and removed a small, bluish ring and placed it on the table in front of Victor, who exhaled, slowly.

“Give it back, Sherlock.”

“Can’t. Evidence.”

Victor chewed on the inside of his cheek, staring at Sherlock. “This was all obtained illegally, you know. None of this will count in court.”

Sherlock gave a careless shrug of his shoulders, infuriating Victor.

 “Motherfucker, give it back, the ring’s mine!”

“But for a long while it was hers, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock and Victor locked stares, and Victor didn’t need to say a word. His breath caught in his chest, and his eyes, while still angry, had gone misty.

John picked up the ring and asked softly. “So, a-a wedding band, I guess?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Mood ring, actually – and a defective one at that. Doesn’t work, see how it’s always dark blue? But it was Melinda’s, all right. This is what left the tan line on her ring finger – the width of the tan line matches the width of the ring precisely, I confirmed it this morning at Bart’s.”

Victor’s mouth drew tight. He straightened his posture and wiped his eyes dry with an impatient swipe of his hand. He sniffed. “It wasn’t a wedding band. It was actually sort of the opposite.”

Sherlock put the box aside and perched on the desk. “Tell me.”

The American leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “The ring was something she gave me, a long time ago. Bubblegum machine prize, you know, the thing where you put in 20p and spin the knob and it comes out the bottom?” He shifted, getting lost in the memory. “She, uh, said I needed it because I was a moody bastard. But it was broken from the start, just cheap crap from Japan, you know, but she said it just proved that I was heartless.”

John saw the hurt in his eyes. “Did you love her?”

“No. We were never like that.” Victor said, emphatically. “She used to give me shit for being a slut, all my boys and girls. Mel and I were just…pals.”

Can hardly blame her, thought John. Victor had been an overtly promiscuous, bisexual drug-dealer in the early 1990s -- even if she _had_ been interested in him, it would have been best to keep it platonic, no matter how safe his sexual practices. John, himself, has run through this particular line of thinking just the night before, but had lacked the self-restraint to say no, although he had remembered the condoms... “Smart girl, that Mel. “

“I’m going to try not be offended by that, John, “ Victor chided. “So, instead, I’ll just agree with you. Mel was brilliant.”

Sherlock’s hand flickered at his chin, thoughtful. “And you gave her the ring back? Why?”

Victor’s expression tightened again. “You already know the answer.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “Because Chad had left her.”

He nodded. “The day the divorce was final, we threw her wedding ring into the Thames. Then we got stinking drunk and she cried, because…”

“…her finger was bare…”

“…it was too much. So I gave her the mood ring to fill in the space. And to remind her…”

“…to harden her heart.” Sherlock sighed. “To be heartless, like you.”

The room went suddenly still. John crossed his arms in front of his chest. “So, where does this leave us? Who killed Mel, Victor?”

“I told you. Chad Wilson is at fault,” Victor said with firm conviction. “Regardless of my friendship with Mel, regardless of whatever evidence you think you’ve collected here, Chad is to blame.”

Sherlock stared, and John’s eyes moved from one man to the other.

“Okay,” Victor shifted on the couch with the air of someone who has made a decision. “I think it’s time you both understood a few things about Chad and what happened after he disappeared.” He stood up. “Meet me at Lily’s later tonight? She and Teddy deserve to be in on this conversation, too.”

John wrinkled his forehead in surprise. “Teddy?”

Sherlock explained. “Theodore James, Melinda’s cowardly boyfriend, remember? Locked in the hotel bathroom?” John murmured at the recollection.

“I mean, that’s assuming, of course, that I _am_ free to go?” Victor snarked, sounding a bit more like his usual self. “Not under citizen’s arrest or anything, am I Rabbit? Do you limeys even have citizen’s arrest?”

Sherlock didn’t have the heart to give him shit about the nickname, so he ignored it and the snark and instead gave him a careless wave of his hand. “Seven tonight, then, at Lily’s,” he said, sounding bored. “But Victor, I should remind you that my brother’s CCTV cameras are always watching. You’re not under arrest now, but trying to leave the country would be a mistake.”

“Big Brother is watching, literally – happily, your big brother can be bribed with cake.” Victor quipped, and shot him a half-smile before putting on his coat. “Never fear, boys – I’ll behave.”

John and Sherlock stood to see him out, and Victor snatched his boots from the coffee table. “They’re not evidence, they’re my favorite boots, you fuck.”

Sherlock laughed. “I know.”

“Look, I get that you gotta keep Mel’s ring, but…keep it safe, okay? When the time comes, I’ll want it back.”

“I will.”

 The older man clapped his hand on Sherlock’s back. “By the way, your right hook’s much improved, ya bastard.” He said tentatively poking at the tape, with a wince and a groan. “See you tonight, Bunny.”

He took a few steps closer to the door, before turning back to look at John. “You’ll come, too, right? I’m not done with you…”

John gave him a curt military nod, feeling awkward in front of his flatmate. Victor smiled and winked at Sherlock before draping a lazy arm over John and walking with him to the door, whispering quietly into his ear and nipping at the delicate skin of his neck.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made a sharp turn into the kitchen, feeling a sudden urge to catch up on some long-neglected mold spore analysis.

 

*****

 

John’s lips were still wet with Victor’s kisses when he entered the kitchen.

Sherlock sat at the table with his mold spores, and had just booted up his computer to enter in the data. He kept his eyes on the screen when John walked in.

“Might as well do some washing up – do you mind?” John asked. Sherlock shrugged, and entered in some numbers on the keyboard. John ran a sponge under the tap.

“Congratulations, by the way,” said Sherlock, eyes still focused on his laptop. “You managed to do something that very few people have.”

John gave a nervous smile. “I don’t know if it’s that much of an accomplishment, Sherlock, the man just described himself as a slut.”

“Not that, you idiot.” Sherlock finally looked up from his monitor. “I’m talking about the fact that you…surprised me. That doesn’t really happen.”

John rinsed off a plate. “And how did I do that?” he asked.

Sherlock stood and walked over to John, picking up a tea towel. “Your response in the club, before the running off part. Your unexpectedly simple seduction by Victor. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

John’s mouth gaped, and he flushed as he held out a freshly-washed plate for Sherlock to dry, the man’s sudden proximity and the conversation setting John into stammer mode once more. “I-I…tell you what?”

“That you’re submissive.” Sherlock said, casually, his hands brushing John’s as he took the dish. “Of course, your ready answer when I asked you about power exchange at dinner the other night really should have clued me in, but I just never imagined.”

John fumbled with the glassware. “I guess I’m like you, Sherlock. That particular fact is not something I share with the world, as a rule.” He handed Sherlock a teacup, and watched him dry it and put it away.

“Are you ashamed of it?”

John hesitated, heart pounding fast, the water hot on his hands, the word sending shivers. “Honestly? Yes,” he said, quickly, and handed Sherlock a cereal bowl.

“You shouldn’t be.” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

John snorted. “Easy for you to say. Nothing emasculating about being a Dom, is there?”

“Nothing emasculating about being a submissive, either.” Sherlock shot back. “Most that I’ve known have been pretty badarse. Kind of have to be, don’t they? For all they endure…”

John wasn’t quite sure how it was that he was continuing to breathe, and he cursed the never-ending pile of dishes in the sink, their persistence preventing him from an easy exit out of this incredibly uncomfortable and simultaneously arousing conversation. He ran the sponge around a tall glass.

“Are you okay with what’s been going on?” John asked, avoiding eye contact. “With Victor and I? I mean, night before last, he was in your bed and last night, he was in mine.”

Sherlock smiled, letting out a small laugh. “He really is a slut, isn’t he?”

John winked. “And thank goodness for that, yeah?”

Sherlock leaned against the counter, catching John’s eye. “I’m fine with it, John. You and Victor.”

“So the…punch to the nose? _Really_ not about the sex?”

The water continued to run into the sink while John eyed Sherlock, looking for honesty. Sherlock, however, just smiled again and looked away, dropping the towel on the counter and moved back toward the table.

“I’ve got cultures to count, John. And you should take a nap before we head out for Lily’s. Given half a chance, he’ll keep you up all night tonight -- trust me on that. Grab sleep while you can.”

And just like that, the conversation was closed.

 _A step too far, Watson,_ John thought, regretting the question. _Way to go._

So, he shut off the faucet, dried his hands, considered Sherlock’s (direction), no, _advice,_ and decided that he would, in fact, go upstairs for a nap.

It turns out, you see, he really _was_ quite tired…

*****

 

Lestrade leaned back in his chair. Interrogation wasn’t like in the movies. The lighting wasn’t nearly as dramatic, and in real life, the coffee was always old. The perps, too, were never as interesting, nor as well-spoken, as they were in the films. Just take this one, for example…

“Mr. Wilson –“

“Mr. Lloyd…”

“Fine, Mr. Lloyd, aka Mr. Wilson…”

“Right, ya ducks and geese –“

“Charming,” said Lestrade. “But refer to the ‘fucking police’ one more time in my presence, in any language, and I’ll forget my manners, won’t I? Unless, that is, you were legitimately attempting to initiate a conversation about water fowl?”

Chad Wilson made a rude noise. “Easy, Rozzer, I’m not talking to anyone but my solicitor.”

Lestrade sighed. “Look, we just want to know where you were last Friday afternoon. Answer that the right way, and if it can be backed up, you could be walking out of here in the next five minutes, no solicitor needed.”

That’s when Wilson began bellowing the Right to Silence: “YOU DO NOT HAVE TO SAY ANYTHING, BUT IT MAY HARM YOUR DEFENCE IF YOU DO NOT MENTION WHEN QUESTIONED SOMETHING WHICH YOU LATER RELY ON IN COURT. ANYTHING YOU DO SAY MAY BE GIVEN IN EVIDENCE!”

“Very nice. Someone’s been arrested before…”

Wilson continued: “YOU DO NOT HAVE TO SAY ANYTHING, BUT IT MAY HARM YOUR DEFENCE IF YOU DO NOT MENTION WHEN QUESTIONED SOMETHING WHICH YOU LATER RELY ON IN COURT. ANYTHING YOU DO SAY MAY BE GIVEN IN EVIDENCE!”

“Seriously? You’re just going to shout now?”

“YOU DO NOT HAVE TO SAY ANYTHING, BUT IT MAY HARM YOUR DEFENCE IF YOU DO NOT MENTION WHEN QUESTIONED SOMETHING WHICH YOU LATER RELY ON IN COURT. ANYTHING YOU DO SAY MAY BE GIVEN IN EVIDENCE!”

“Fantastic, can’t ever hear that enough…”

Wilson launched into his recitation again as Lestrade opened the door to the room, calling out into the hall. “Donovan, can you please check on the arrival of Mr. Wilson’s solicitor, for god’s sake?”

He turned back to Chad. “Look, if you plan on shouting for the rest of your time here, I’d suggest tea with honey while you wait, better for the throat. Your lawyer will be here soon.”

 _…as soon I can bloody drag him down here with my own two hands_ , Lestrade thought, and decided that he should have known the case would become a festering boil on his arse the moment Sherlock Holmes’ name had been mentioned.

He sighed again, and briefly wondered if there were any doughnuts to be had in the break room…

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***End-Note Extras***
> 
> \- The movie scene that Sherlock couldn't quite place when watching Victor dab at his nose? It was [this one](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QAs6s80RyeY). FYI, I've always wanted to write slash for the pairing you'll find at :46 into this clip...
> 
> \- [Victor's boots, sans autograph](http://www.ebay.com/itm/1980s-Vintage-US-MILITARY-9-Leather-DMS-Combat-Boots-Mens-11-R-/190912172641)
> 
> \- [Joe Strummer's autograph](http://www.marksguitars.com/images/JoeStrummer.jpg)
> 
> \- [Mel's ring](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0gDGsgjqjxE/TWMOeUvoxuI/AAAAAAAAAqw/EnJ-tgl5WME/s200/mood-ring.jpg)
> 
> \- [Bubblegum Machine](http://moblog.net/media/d/i/g/digitalesse/bubblegum-1.jpg)
> 
> \- [Good news for Greg Lestrade!](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/newsbysector/retailandconsumer/10305162/Dunkin-Donuts-plans-UK-return-after-20-years.html)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this week's chapter!  
> vex.


	13. "Whiplash"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock suffers a “glitch” or two, Lily owns up to a few deceptions, and Victor confesses to a crime…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/<Follow)

_…bells on the door chime his entrance – not that the clerk is paying the bells any mind. He sits slouched behind the counter, drinking a cherry Ice Blast, eyes perusing a fetish magazine, ears jacked into his iPod._

_Sherlock’s entry into the shop has gone completely unnoticed…_

_In the dream, Sherlock recognizes it’s 2007, recognizes the shop, and realizes that it’s that first night, just days after they’d first met. Three years later, he can still taste the cherry on his lips…_

_In truth, it hadn’t taken much for the detective to discover the boy’s full name, and suss out where he worked, which turned out to be this overlooked sex shop in Soho._

_(…flash of garish colors, comically absurd dildos the length of his arm, porn star pouts hawking plastic vaginas and blow-up dolls, a neon sign flashing “Adult! Entertainment!”, pounding in time with his heartbeat…)_

_Sherlock prowls the aisles, passing the hallway that he knows leads to a series of private booths, rooms that smell of sex and smoke and desperation.  He sweeps past lurid DVD displays, and a wall of bachelor party supplies, only hesitating in front of the locked glass cabinet filled with the store’s priciest toys – high quality vibrators and plugs, leather floggers and custom paddles that cost more than the average customer’s budget could bear._

_(…flash to Sherlock’s hands pushing him up against the wall of the booth, and the unholy sounds he makes when Sherlock presses the pricey stimulator deep inside his arse…)_

_He eyes the still-oblivious clerk with appreciation, admiring the curve of his mouth, the tightness of his hips and his wild tangle of blonde hair. Only his eyes are wrong. They’re the wrong color – blue instead of green. Odd, that. Glitch in the neurons, he thinks._

_He shakes it off and smirks, approaching the counter with the same cocaine-inspired confidence he’d had that night in 2007._

_“You should be fired. I could’ve stolen you blind…”_

_The clerk jumps, and nearly spills his drink. “Shit - wha—“_

_The boy looks up, surprise and indignation turning to recognition, in the span of a instant._

_“Hey, I know you…”_

_(…flash of the first night, the night at the club and the blond is bare to the waist, marked by the lash of an earnest Domme and he’s winking at Sherlock, but Sherlock’s too busy watching Victor, watching Victor’s eyes sweep every inch of the boy’s bare flesh…)_

_“Obviously,” Sherlock says dismissively, a chill curling in his spine. “Do you remember my name?”_

_The clerk smiles. Blushes. Smiles again. “Sherlock.”_

_The detective gives him a quick nod. “And you’re Alexander.”_

_“Alex.”_

_In 2007, Alex was 20, and Sherlock was 31. In the dream, though, Sherlock could tell that this Alex was older, maybe even older than him -- although he looked exactly as he always had, except for the eyes. Alex had the slim hips and angelic blonde hair of a twink, without being vacantly, breakably, pretty like one. Alex was already too debauched, too knowing, too rough-and-tumble, which made him…interesting. Surprising. Masculine. Dangerous, even._

_“What can I help you with, Sherlock?” Alex says, his mouth forming a cocky little smile._

_(…flash to ten minutes from now, and Sherlock knows his erection will be plumbing the depths of that filthy mouth, his hands will pull through tousled hair, then, eventually, the leather flogger will completely pull this boy apart…)_

_“I suspect that it’s you that needs my help, Alex.” Sherlock purrs, unhurriedly pulling at the tips of his leather gloves, removing them carefully and placing them into the pocket of his coat. “First, I want you to come out from behind that counter. Then I want you to unlock that cabinet,” he says, indicating its location with a slight jerk of his head, “Last, I want you to watch while I take my pick.”_

_Alex looks at him, then as he did before – peering over artfully smeared black eyeliner, his hand automatically sweeping through his messy fringe, pushing it out of his way and showing off a handful of silver rings. He licks his lips, a familiar nervous tell, but it isn’t one that belongs to this boy._

_Another dream glitch._

_Another stutter in the neurons._

_“And what will happen next?” Alex asks, deliberately._

_Sherlock gives him a short, sardonic smile. “Well, then, you’ll ring up my purchase, earn a tidy sum in commission, and we’ll put everything to immediate good use in one of those booths in the back.”_

_(…flash to the taste of Alex’s skin, his whitening knuckles, the shine of sweat on his shoulder…)_

_“And if I refuse?”_

_(…flash to the torn condom packet, and the sound of Alex’s gorgeous fucking whimper…)_

_Sherlock cocks his head to the side, considering the question._

_(…flash to Sherlock pulling him wide, spilling the lube, forcing his way in, fuck…)_

_“You won’t,” Sherlock says simply, with a careless shrug of his shoulders, and walks away, so confident in his knowledge that Alexander will follow, he never even looks back._

_But this isn’t real life._

_This is a dream._

_And in this dream, before the fucking, before the booth, even before they reach the toys, Alex appears, suddenly, at Sherlock’s side._

_“Yes?” Sherlock asks, impatiently. “What?”_

_Alex leans in,_

_(…short hair now, tangles gone…)_

_…puts his hand on Sherlock’s upper arm,_

_(…shooting jacket instead of t-shirt, and underneath…)_

_… whispers,_

_(…battle-scarred skin in place of smooth)_

_“It will never be this easy again.”_

_(…John’s face suddenly superimposed over Alex’s…)_

_“Next time, trust me,”_

_(…and then it’s just John standing there with an apologetic smile…)_

_“This time, Sherlock, you’re going to have to try a little harder.”_

 

He jerked awake, and sat up on the couch, momentarily disoriented. Sherlock hadn’t planned on sleeping, but it really shouldn’t have been a surprise. He hadn’t had more than two hours of sleep, total, since Saturday.

He checked his watch – nearly time to leave for Lily’s.

The dream lingered, a distraction. The memory of Alex was odd enough – he hadn’t dreamed about Alex in forever – but combined with John’s sudden appearance, not to mention the reality of Sherlock’s post-dream erection, gave the whole thing new dimension. The fact that he was rock hard – again – felt patently ridiculous, considering the amount of sex he’d had over the last few days. He groaned…

Curious.

Sherlock reached for his phone to text John, too lazy (and, frankly, too _indisposed_ ) to climb the stairs to his room to wake him in person -- but of course, Sherlock’s phone wasn’t there, having been smashed to pieces by his own hand outside a tube stop in the wee hours of the morning.

Not that John needed Sherlock to wake him, surely.

Surely John would have been responsible, would’ve set an alarm.

John was like that, after all.

Capable.

Efficient.

Loyal.

A curious dream, Sherlock thought again, and stumbled into the shower, contemplating its deletion…

*****

 

Sunday morning’s cordial tea at Lily’s had become Monday night’s anxious cocktail hour. Sherlock watched John accept a glass of scotch with a polite “Ta,” and then settle into the chair to Sherlock’s immediate right. His eyes moved to the rest of the room.

Lily had chosen the chair to his left. She was less animated today, he noticed -- resigned, it seemed – which was interesting, her nervous fingers tracing the rim of her glass. Sherlock wondered how many of her secrets would be revealed today…

To her immediate left was Teddy James, Melinda’s boyfriend and rumored bathroom hysteric. He was in his 30s, an earnest hippie with a sensitive ponytail and an apparent problem with alcohol, judging by the bloat of his face. Sherlock stood, held out his hand and introduced himself.

The handshake was firm, but his hands were soft. “Nice to meet you,” he said, politely. Considering James’ reaction at the crime scene, Sherlock had expected the man to be an utter wreck this evening. Instead, he appeared composed, and even smiled when Victor recounted a story about Melinda. John was watching James as well, and locked eyes with Sherlock. The detective nodded once in confirmation before sitting back down in the chair by the fireplace and waiting for the rest of the party to gather.

In the car, Sherlock had been quiet in the aftermath of his dream. His erection was gone, having been thoroughly dealt with in the shower, the memories of Alex’s resilient body getting him to the point of no return – but when he’d cum, it’d had been with John Watson’s name in his mouth. 

Which had been quite a surprise, really…

Afterward, he’d collapsed against the tile, warm water pounding down. It wasn’t until moments later that he’d realized precisely whose name he’d called out, and what image had ultimately triggered his climax: John, as he imagined him, restrained and desperate beneath him, pleading for use, fuck…

“You alright, then?” John had asked in the car, a hint of worry furrowing his brow.

Sherlock forced himself to smile. “Yes. Just tired. Would’ve been better off if I’d stayed awake.”

If he’d stayed awake, he wouldn’t have this dream to distract him, for starters. Without the dream, there would have been no erection, and without the erection, there would have been no beyond-the-pale imagining of his flatmate in cuffs.

_(…the leather ones, with the silver buckles, chains rattling against the headboard, oh for fuck’s sake…)_

He breathed evenly, trying his best to appear cool and collected for John.  What happened in the shower had been nothing, less than nothing. It had been masturbation and another skip of the neurons, except this time, the skip happened when he was awake. Doesn’t mean Sherlock was secretly harboring feelings for John, no – not anymore than it had the time his teenaged self had woken in the middle of the night to sticky sheets and the fleeting mental image of Princess Anne. All it meant was that John was on his mind, and considering the events of the last several days, he had good reason to be there.

Sherlock turned his head, risking a sideways glance at the doctor, and that’s when his inner monologue finally calmed the fuck down enough to notice something, something different, something different about John – and all awkwardness fled as his keen mind pounced. “No jumper today?”

“I don’t wear a jumper every day, Sherlock.” John’s said, with a long-suffering tone.

“Yes, but you’re wearing a new shirt.” He pronounced, eyes bright and feeling suddenly quick, awakened by the promise of deductions, even if they were deductions of a non-criminal nature. “You haven’t bought a new item of clothing since you moved into the flat.”

John made an exasperated noise. “Yes, I bought a new shirt, okay? We went to the shops yesterday, before you came home. Problem?”

 “We? Oh.” Sherlock’s face darkened. “Victor bought it.”

“I bought the shirt, thanks.” John said, pointedly, and then, less sharply, “But he did help pick it out.”

“That’s adorable.” Sherlock said, bitingly, before he could pull it back. “I do hope he bought one to match…”

“Don’t be an arse, Sherlock.” John’s body tensed, and leaned forward in the seat. “We are not adorable, we are adults, and the bloke just helped me pick out a bloody shirt, alright? That’s it. End of story. Look, you did say you were okay with this…”

Yes, thought Sherlock, but that was before the masturbation and dreams about porn shops had started. That had been back when he was still just reeling over the dual revelations of John’s kink and his own utter failure to observe it. Because really - looking at him now, it should have been crystal clear. His ready smile, his undying wonder, his limitless patience – not to mention his increased respiration whenever his personal space was compromised by _Sherlock_ \-- although, theoretically, the same results could potentially result from any Dom’s presence, or even any other person’s, for that matter. Worth looking into, Sherlock thought. Easy enough to set up a small experiment, no need to tell John about it, observe reaction further around Victor…

“Sherlock!” John nudged. “Slow down, I can practically _hear_ you thinking. What is it? Are you worried about the meeting?”

“No, just need more data. Heard back from Lestrade yet?”

“Oh, right, you berk,” John grimaced. “You break your phone in a snit and the I end up being your bloody secretary…” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and began pressing buttons, eyes glued to its screen. “Text says ‘Wilson’s in custody, but he isn’t talking.’”

Sherlock watched John’s hands as they fidgeted over the phone – freshly trimmed nails, clean – and then expanded his observations to take in his close shave, his modestly shined shoes, his polished belt buckle, the crisply ironed (new) shirt, and the undeniable presence of actual styling product in his hair… bloody hell. Was Sherlock now completely incapable of deducing John Watson? Because this last minute realization should have been completely obvious, from the very moment they’d left the flat.

“John. You have a date.”

John exhaled nervously. “Assuming that whatever we find out this evening doesn’t put my date behind bars? Yeah, I do. ”

A date. That’s what Victor, that fucker, had been whispering to John as he’d left the flat this afternoon. A feeling rose in Sherlock’s chest, a feeling that, for the moment, he absolutely refused to identify as anything close to jealousy. Even if he had identified it as such, he wouldn’t have been sure who, exactly, it was that he was jealous of. 

So, he played it off. Asked a question. Kept it light.

“So, going to dinner, then?”

“Yeah. Dinner. There was talk of a casino, I think? Play some cards. Not that I’ve got a lot to gamble with, but…”

 “You’ll do fine,” assured Sherlock, reminding himself to stay pleasant. “Victor’s quite lucky at the tables. And barring luck, he’s also an excellent cheat. Remind me to tell you about our trip to Vegas sometime.”

John couldn’t figure out if Sherlock was merely trying to be conversational, or if the reference to Vegas was some sort of clumsy attempt at one-upmanship. In an effort to keep the peace, John chose to believe the former, even though, let’s face it, the man rarely said anything for conversation’s sake alone. 

Sherlock looked up, and peered through the windshield to get his bearings. They were almost there. He braced himself for the conversation topic that was sure to come before they arrived…

“Sherlock, listen,” John said.

Right on schedule, Sherlock thought.

John continued. “Judging by what you said earlier in the flat, I’m sure you’ve already assumed this, but I thought you should know – I am planning on sleeping at Victor’s tonight.”

Sherlock didn’t meet his eyes, but rather played with the door lock a bit. Flipping it forward and back, watching the mechanism move. Flip up, flip back, flip up, flip back…

John attempted, again, to engage. “So, basically, you’ve got the flat all to yourself tonight.  You can hang from the chandeliers, you know, experiment on all the human heads you want, yeah? Just try and leave my things out of the range of fire, okay?”

Flip up, flip back, flip up, flip back, flip…

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock stopped mid-flip. He looked up again, nodded, and smiled at John with what he hoped was a convincingly sincere grin.

“Not that fire should be involved at all in your activities.” John warned. “Just do, you know, whatever it was that you used to do in the flat before I moved in. Have fun.”

Sherlock nodded again, and stared at the man sitting next to him. In the light of the setting sun, Sherlock found himself suddenly struck by the fact that in all the weeks they’d been living together, he’d had never once noticed the rather appealing cleft in John’s chin.

“Right, mate.” Sherlock said brusquely, shaking off sentiment like a dog shaking off fleas. “See if you can win some money for rent, will you? I’ve got my eye on a new microscope…”

 

Back at Lily’s, Victor had pulled John into the alcove outside the sitting room, and Sherlock watched them from a distance -- no sounds, only gestures, watching Victor’s eyes on John’s, then his lips on John’s, then his hands…Sherlock turned away, just in time to see Lily watching them with a similarly keen eye.

Clever girl, he thought, but not clever enough to avoid observation…

Five minutes later, Victor and John had joined the group around the fire, and the discussion began.

“Okay, so you guys know that I asked Sherlock and John to investigate Mel’s death, right? Sherlock’s an old friend, and John’s a new one, but I’m hoping they’ll bring Mel’s murderer to justice.”

Victor surprised John then, taking his hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze -- which prompted Sherlock, who was feeling suddenly peevish, to mutter under his breath. “Be careful what you hope for, Victor.”

“Sorry, Sherlock, little louder please?” Victor challenged, making it clear that tonight,  he would not be putting up with the detective’s difficult moods.

Sherlock falsely brightened, all innocence and smiles. “Oh, sorry for the interruption, but -- Lily, I was just wondering if you might have any Jack Daniels in the house? Scotch has never been my thing.”

Lily jumped up to check the bar and Victor slid his eyes to Sherlock, suspicious. “Since when do you drink Jack?”

“Call it a new obsession.” Sherlock smiled, pointedly. “I could drink _cases_ of the stuff.”

Lily returned with a glass and handed it to the detective, who smiled smugly and then promptly ignored it entirely.

Victor didn’t know what Sherlock was on about, so he shrugged and pressed on. “I’d hoped the investigation would wrap up without you guys having to go into all of this, but it’s time. They need to know in order to get a clear conviction.”

Sherlock leaned in, and nodded, curiosity finally trumping his ill temper.

Lily took up the thread, addressing Sherlock and John. “Look, I feel terrible. When you visited yesterday, you were wonderful – but I told you things that weren’t true, and that was wrong.”

She looked so contrite, and a ghost of a smile fell over Sherlock’s face.

John saw the look, and he stepped in before Sherlock could speak.” “Look, Lily, I’m sure you didn’t mean any harm.”

“Oh, I didn’t!” she agreed, quickly. “I was trying to protect everyone – including myself. I know Victor, of course, and I gave you the impression that I didn’t. I also implied that I didn’t know that my father was alive.”

“Yes, you put that one on rather thick, as I recall.” Sherlock reminisced, bitterly. “Your third deception of the day, actually.”

She blinked. “Third?”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, the first was your flattery of John and I, even recalling our recent press, which, even you must admit, was a rather mindless ego-stroke. The second was the origin of your insomnia – couldn’t have been the result of your father’s disappearance, because he hadn’t actually disappeared had he? No, rather, your sleepless nights have come as a result of the large cache of prescription drugs you keep hidden in the bottom of that firewood basket – oxymorphone, if I’m not mistaken – utter hell on one’s good nights.”

Lily’s mouth gaped. “I don’t…I…how?”

“Charming girl,” Sherlock explained, triumphantly. “I hide my stash in the very same place. I guess it is true – it really does take one to know one.”

John looked to Sherlock in amazement, and Teddy appeared confused.

Victor, on the other hand, went deadly cold and quiet before grabbing the fire basket and upending it with one quick flick of his wrist. Kindling tumbled out onto the carpet, followed by half-a-dozen rattling, plastic orange bottles. “Jesus, Lily…” he said.

“Look, this is not what you think. I-I just…needed something to get through exams, and a friend had suggested…” she started, before scanning the disappointed and disbelieving faces in the room. She sighed, biting off her words mid-sentence and instantly dropping all pretense. “You know what? Fuck it. I don’t have to explain myself to you. This is a room full of addicts, starting with you,” she pointed at Teddy, “What is that? Your third shot of courage since tea-time? And you,” she pointed at Sherlock. “Clever for a junkie, aren’t you, Rabbit? Oh yeah, I’ve heard all the stories. And as for you,” she reared up on Victor. “You’re actually worse than an addict, aren’t you? Fucking pusher…”

“Correction: Fucking Chemist.”

“Whatever!” She stood up and snatched the bottles from the pile. “I’m done with all of this!” she shouted, before storming out of the room and up the stairs.

Victor was fast on her heels, calling after her, and Sherlock basked in the chaos, and in John’s marvelous wonder.

Teddy coughed, uncomfortably. “You’ll have to forgive her. She’s had a rather hard time of it, between her mother and her Dad.”

“Not to mention her dear Uncle Vic,” murmured Sherlock, in a way that lingered unpleasantly in John’s mind.

Teddy held up a hand. “No, you seriously don’t understand what they’ve been through.”

“Then why don’t you tell us?” Sherlock asked, and Teddy James proceeded to do just that.

 

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock and John stood out on the Wilson’s back porch. You couldn’t see stars, really, in the city limits, but the moon was full and bright, and Sherlock had nicked a cigarette from Victor’s pack. The flame flared in his hands as the spark caught.

“So. Do you believe all that?” John asked.

“I don’t disbelieve it,” Sherlock remarked, blowing smoke rings into the cold night air. “Extortion is nothing new – and by all accounts, Chad Wilson is a particularly rotten piece of work. The real question is, why would Mel pay his price, over and over again, to the point of driving herself to near bankruptcy?”

“Easy. She was afraid of him.” Victor voice boomed from behind them. They turned, watching him step out onto the porch.

“Everything okay in there?” John asked, tentatively.

Victor’s mouth had become a tight line. “She’ll be okay. She’s angry, but fuck, I’m angry. Oxymorphone? Shit…” He turned to Sherlock. “Not exactly what I thought we’d be talking about tonight, but thanks, Bunny. We needed to know. ”

“What was Mel afraid of, Vic?”

“Wilson’s a dangerous man.” Victor reached out for Sherlock’s cigarette and took a drag. “Persuasive, too.”

Sherlock took back the smoke, and paused for effect. “Persuasive enough to convince you to crack the safe at his ex-wife’s pub?”

Victor let out a low whistle, and Sherlock shot him a sly smile.

“Hot damn, Sherlock. Well done, you.”

“You gave yourself away, you idiot.”

“Well, I wasn’t about to leave it on the shelf, now was I?”

John scrubbed his face with his hand. “All right, you geniuses: bring me up to speed, I’ve no idea what either of you are on about.”

“There is a pub near Peckham, a hop and a skip from Player’s East, actually, called The 12 Steps.” explained Sherlock. “I stopped in for a drink last night, and while I was there, I met a lovely lady named Fulvia –“

“Step-monster,” interrupted John. “Lily’s stepmother Fulvia.”

“Exactly! And she happened to tell me about a robbery that had taken place at her establishment not six months ago. They cracked the safe and stole its contents.” And here, Sherlock stared meaningfully at Victor. “The thieves also stole their _entire stock of Jack Daniels_.” 

“Again, it was there for the taking!”

“Wait, you – you cracked a safe?” John asked him. “How would you even know how to do something like that? That’s ridiculous!”

Sherlock scowled. “It’s not that difficult.”

“Well, its certainly not easy!” Victor threw his arm around John, prompting more scowling from Sherlock. “See, John, I have hidden skills.”

Sherlock made a disgusted noise. “Why did you rob Fulvia?”

“I robbed from Peter to pay Paul.” Victor squinted at the memory, waffling. “Well, technically, robbed from Paul to pay Paul, I suppose.”

“Oh good, riddles. Just what this night needs.” John rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake…”

“No riddles,” Victor said with a laugh. “Look, Chad didn’t put me up to it, Mel did. She was completely out of money, he’d sucked her dry. She knew that Chad sometimes stashed money in Fulvia’s safe, so she asked me to grab it. That way she would have cash in hand for his next demand, and he’d never know he was just getting money he’d already taken.”

“Plan was clever, but you were stupid.” The detective said, stubbing out his cigarette. “You really want to do time in the nick for robbing a pub?”

“I’d rather not serve time at all, thanks. John and I have dinner reservations.” He grinned.

Sherlock was not amused. “About that. Victor, can you give us a moment?”

The American looked from Sherlock to John, and then back again. “Sure. Take all the time you need.” He reached for the door handle. “’Night Bunny. John -- I’ll be in the car.” He winked, and then withdrew into the house.

Sherlock and John were alone again

“Quite a deduction. The robbery.” John said.

“I just happen to know Victor. The Jack was a dead giveaway.” said Sherlock, dismissively. He shot John a conspiratorial look. “Listen, you should know something.”

“What should I know?”

“Hear me out.” Sherlock said. “Did you look at Lily tonight? I mean, really look at her, closely?”

“I dunno,” said John. “I know she called you a junkie. I was paying pretty close attention when she came out with that.”

“No, dammit,” Sherlock said, pacing now. “Her fingers, she was playing with the rim of her glass. Did you look at her damned fingernails?”

John took a moment. “They were long, painted, red, I think?”

“Nail tips, John.” He spat. “I don’t know why I didn’t notice them yesterday. Synthetic nail tips, thinner at the top than actual fingernails. Exactly like the ones that made the scratches on Victor’s neck at the scene of the crime.”

“You think Lily made those marks?”

“I think Lily was Victor’s mystery girl in that hotel room the night her mother died. I think she made those marks on Victor’s neck and I know for a fact that she was staring daggers at you and Vic earlier tonight.”

“So you think they’re together?”

“John,” Sherlock tentatively reached out to touch his arm. “He committed a crime for her.”

“For her mother,” John corrected. “And besides, he commits crimes all the time, doesn’t he? ‘Fucking Chemist’?”

“And you’re okay with that? John Watson, Queen and Country, you don’t have a problem with this?”

John crossed his arms. “Sherlock Holmes. You’re jealous.”

“I’m just,” Sherlock stuttered. “I’m just saying that Victor Trevor isn’t the only person who can do…what he does, you know…to you. With you. For you. There are countless others.”

Unbelievable. John shook his head, mouth agape. “So, you want me to go find someone else, then? So you can have him?”

“I already told you, I don’t want him!”

“Bullshit.” John gritted. “I mean, I get it, okay. You fixate on people and socially, finding someone, well...I can’t imagine it’s easy for you. You’ve known him a lifetime, and I’ve only known him for a few days…”

Sherlock hardened at John’s words, and fixed him with a strange look. “All right, John, let’s talk about that, shall we? About how generous you’ve been with your affections of late, and how quickly you were to give them.”

John was taken aback. “Again, you said this afternoon that you were fine with all this.”

“And I am fine,” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. “I’m just remarking as to the speed with which this coupling took place. Gave me a bit of whiplash, honestly.”

Sherlock’s words hit home, and John rallied. “You can’t possibly be this dense, can you? Oh my god, you can. Sherlock, put two and two together. Victor and I are your fucking fault!”

“My fault? One minute you’ve got your hand on your cock for me in the club and the next minute you’re on your knees for him, and it’s my fault?”

“Yes, exactly!” John hissed at Sherlock. “When you came on to me in that club, it was fantastic and terrifying and everything I wanted – minus the girl, you know, but that was beside the point. It was you, that’s what mattered. And then I had a panic attack. A full-on, chest-pounding, mind-numbing cold sweat attack.”

Sherlock stared at him, unmoving, unable to move.

John continued. “You never even tried to look for me, you shit. You just ran out that door with that woman. When I came back to the room, you two were long gone. ”

“You came back?” Sherlock swallowed, slowly.

“I came back.” John said, resolutely. “And then I came home, and Victor was waiting for me. So if you’ve got whiplash, Sherlock, I hate to say it, mate, but you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. “

John pulled open the door. “Have a good night,” he said, with no small amount of regret, and quietly slipped back into the house.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***End-Note Extras***
> 
>  [Meet Alex.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKHlaq_0MNE&feature=youtube_gdata_player) And also[ this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rsWvv8HTo-g).  
> (Warning: "American Horror Story" clips, potential Season 1 spoilers in both of these -[ Clicky here instead](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mCqH5oAzy3k/TuVlcm2qd7I/AAAAAAAABQE/jizWd6Xhl64/s1600/Evan+Peters+as+Tate+Langdon+on+American+Horror+Story+S01E10+22.png) for a link to a yummy pic without the spoilage…).  
> The Alex character is also inspired by[ this tasty character](http://www.thefancarpet.com/uploaded_assets/images/gallery/1349/8MM_16088_Medium.jpg) from "8mm" (who just so happens to work in a porn shop, imagine that)!
> 
>  Sherlock’s leather gloves were brought to this scene courtesy of [ Esquire’s “Stone-Cold, Drop Dead, Fk-You Confidence” fashion layout with BC](http://www.esquire.com/the-side/style-guides/confident-fall-style-2013#slide-4)
> 
>  Sherlock’s [ leather restraints](http://www.fetters.co.uk/padded-cuff-set-lc10/) (what he imagined John wearing)
> 
>  John’s [new shirt](http://shop.nordstrom.com/S/john-varvatos-star-usa-trim-fit-dress-shirt/3575456?origin=category-personalizedsort&contextualcategoryid=0&fashionColor=BLACK&resultback=2143&cm_sp=personalizedsort-_-browseresults-_-1_6_B)
> 
>  The 12 Steps pub did NOT get its name from [The World’s End pub name generator](http://www.theworldsendmovie.co.uk/pubsignmaker/), but it should have!
> 
>  
> 
> Apologies for the delay, y'all -- the boys really made me sweat for it this week!
> 
> Thanks for all the love, you lovely little perverts!
> 
> vex.


	14. "A Night Without Limits"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just do, you know, whatever it was that you used to do in the flat before I moved in,” John had said, “Have fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Some practices described in this chapter are dangerous activities with potentially fatal consequences. This fic should in no way be seen as endorsement or encouragement for readers to engage in these practices. See end notes for further details.

_“Just do, you know, whatever it was that you used to do in the flat before I moved in,”_ John had said, _“Have fun.”_

Easier said than done, thought Sherlock, staring out into the emptiness of 221B. It was sickly quiet without John’s incessant clicking on the computer keys, without the whistle of the kettle on the stove, without the other man’s step on the stair.

Easier said than done because the things he would have done alone four months ago – solving crimes, kitchen table experiments, violin concertos – were all things he was now used to doing with an audience.

An audience of one.

An audience of John.

He placed the white translucent bag on the kitchen counter, and removed the matte black box that held his replacement phone. Visiting the store in White City had been a necessity – with John out of pocket for the next 24 hours, Sherlock would have been too, if he hadn’t made the stop, and that would have been unacceptable. What if Lestrade needed him, or…anyone else? In spite of his current mood and the events of the evening so far, he’d actually enjoyed the visit to the store – the display devices had felt pleasingly slick beneath his fingers, and openly sneering at the so-called “Geniuses” at the bar always made him feel better.

And make no mistake, Sherlock needed to feel better. Feeling better was better than feeling bad, and if he allowed himself to think about things for any real length of time, he would feel very bad indeed...

His nimble fingers plugged in the phone and set it to charge, as he considered his options. Things he used to do, things that John had never been a part of…

The list was remarkably short.

He tried not to look at the clock. Looking at the clock would set him off calculating distances and travel times from Lily’s to the restaurant, from the restaurant to the only casino that still admitted Victor, from the casino to Victor’s bedroom, calculations that did no one any good at all, least of all Sherlock.

John.

Right under his nose for more than four months.

Even if he had fully…known, registered, understood…what John was, earlier, Sherlock knew he’d still be right where he was now. Victor was always better at this, the relationships, the long-term. Sherlock, on the other hand, was the careless king of the one-off, the chance encounter, the one night stand, utterly confident and completely irresistible when he knew he’d likely never, ever see the person again.

But you can’t be careless with someone you actually care about. When you actually give a damn about another person -- for more than an hour or an evening or a dirty weekend -- crossing lines becomes dangerous.

_(“Touch yourself…” he’d said, and John had, with a blush…)_

Case in point. He’d fucked that up rather nicely, and if Victor hadn’t been waiting at 221B when John came home, how bad would the fallout between John and Sherlock have been? If they’d continued on in their misconceptions of each other’s actions? Would John have stayed? Would Sherlock have wanted him to?

_(He would have wanted him to.)_

As it was, Victor’s intervention saved it, really. Allowed John to combat the perceived rejection with one of his own, evened out the playing field -- perhaps, even skewed it to his advantage, what with Victor being Sherlock’s friend and mentor.

_(Fucking Victor…)_

Again, Victor was always better at this, with his easy grin and that reassuring light touch at the small of your back, making you feel like you were the center of everything. Sherlock remembers being courted by Victor, before they’d both realized there was no point. Victor automatically put people at ease, even as he was sliding off their knickers…

Sherlock wasn’t like that.

Sherlock knew he put people off, made them nervous. His stare was a little too intense, his smile was a little too rare and his words were far too sharp. And while all of this meshed perfectly with the sexy banter of a late night pickup, particularly in a BDSM environment, it fell completely flat by the light of day. Brooding at breakfast, he’d noted, was rarely appreciated.

He tried not to look at the clock, but it was inevitable that he would, and when he did, he ruefully bit back the anger that surfaced, anger at himself, mostly, and bottled it deep inside. They’d be having a marvelous night, by now Victor and John, and Sherlock could picture it all too well. Drinks at the bar before dinner, Victor would make John laugh, and John would tell him stories about the war, about growing up, about Sherlock, maybe, and they would bond. Later, hands under the table, on John’s leg, running along his thigh…John would stammer, embarrassed...  

_(…fuck…)_

That’s when Sherlock decided, fuck it, he _would_ have a night, after all, the one that John had so happily chirped about in the car, a night without John, to be free to do whatever he wanted.

A night without limits -- _truly_ without limits…how long had it been since he’d had one of those? Years and years…and it was something he very rarely let himself even think about – because the thought was like a virus, and once thought, it was hard to get rid of.

On the plus side, the thought did make it rather hard to think about anything else. _(…like army doctors and consulting chemists…)_

The thought of a night without limits simmered just below the surface, as he tried reading a book, as he flipped on the telly, as he hacked into the NSY, just because he could. He felt a familiar chill, anticipation stirring, along with his cock. Before he knew it, Sherlock was making plans: he’d need his Richard James suit, a good many cigarettes, a generous stash of cash…

Then thought turned to action. Fifteen minutes later, the bathroom mirror reflected a new man -- technically not new, just one he’d not seen in awhile -- a steely-eyed Sherlock, all edges, sharper and colder than he’d been in a long while, and for him, that was saying quite a bit. His eyes narrowed at his reflection, and it was like running into an old friend.                                                                                                     

_(Long time no see, Rabbit.)_

His feet hit the pavement, and Sherlock felt as if he were retracing old steps, remembering them like a well-practised dance routine, as if he was moving from muscle memory alone. He hailed a cab and fifteen minutes later, it pulled up outside a non-descript black door, on a side street, in a busy section of town. Sherlock approached the door as the cab drove away, its tailpipe smoking in the cold night air.

He didn’t knock. There was no need to knock, not with the camera, hovering above the door. He just looked up, expectantly, into the lens, and casually held up a small red card, placed between the middle and fore fingers of his right hand.  The door’s locking mechanism disengaged, and Sherlock entered with a self-satisfied smirk. Some things never changed…

Inside the door he found the small anteroom, walls draped in gray velvet, no furniture save a black podium, and no people but for the host, who stood behind it. The host checked his card, called him Sir, took his coat but left him his gloves because in this space, it was a good bet he’d want to keep them…

Sherlock straightened his cuffs and the host opened the door to the inner chamber With a crisp nod of thanks, he walked through the door.

As he stepped out into the shadows, he realized that it felt a lot like coming home.

****

 

 

Sherlock was a predator, but he was never the stalking kind, never a hunter – he never had to be. He was a quiet kind of threat, like an anglerfish, or a sundew, a threat that drew prey _to_ him with little or no effort, submissive moths circling a dominant flame. 

He emerged from the darkened hallway and onto the main floor, assessing the participants with cool detachment, delivering a small contraction of his jaw, a turn of his hips, a subtle stretch of his neck, cheekbones catching in the light. A moment on the floor and then it was done.

He turned heel, made for the lounge, the (non-alcoholic) bar, and ordered a tonic. Alcohol was prohibited here, as a matter of house rule, for safety’s sake. Sherlock suspected it also had to do with the complications of getting a liquor license, since he’d skated under the radar while high here many times in the past. Then again, he had always been remarkably skilled at hiding his inebriation, so perhaps that explained it.

He stood, then, back to the bar, and waited.  There were fewer familiar faces than he’d imagined, and he nodded politely at those he did recognize, but avoided conversation. He had no desire to catch them up on his whereabouts, nor on Victor’s, and he certainly had no interest at all in what they’d been doing over the course of the last year. He could already read it in their faces – this one had back surgery,  that one had his heart broken, this one discovered an unexpected fetish for body modification (easily read from her face because, well, the new piercings actually _were_ all over her face).

He stared out at the floor, focusing his attention on the few people that had caught his attention when he walked in, a man and a woman, not together. The woman was of Persian descent, if he had to guess, and she was attractive enough, but what had really caught his attention was the long, deep scar on her right arm, the scar she made no attempt to hide. The man he’d focused on because he’d been somewhat difficult to ignore – his sheer volume as he took his lashes was simultaneously arousing and incredibly annoying. Sherlock longed to shut him up, to shove something in his mouth – a gag, his cock, anything to stifle him for a little while. He was clearly a bodybuilder, his body corded and strong and Sherlock’s gaze hung on his pronounced inguinal ligament a little too long… 

Theoretically, the detective could have approached one or both of his targets, rather than waiting for them to come to him, but Sherlock preferred to wait. He didn’t like leaving anything to chance, so when he did approach submissives – as he had with Alex back in 2007, it was with the full and firm knowledge that his interest would be returned. The simple fact was, he’d experienced more than enough rejection in his lifetime – he didn’t need to add to it on evenings like these. There was also some small sadism in forcing the submissives to make the first move, immediately putting them outside their comfort zone, making them sweat from the very start.

Not to put too fine a point on it, waiting worked for Sherlock. Granted, he’d always split his bets, pick two or three potential targets that he’d be willing to play with, and inevitably, one if not all would somehow find their way to him at the bar. Sometimes they’d come in the company of boy bob, the facility manager who served as a concierge of sorts, and would conduct formal introductions if asked. Other times, they’d approach them directly on their own, some shyly, an occasional few bold and brashly flirtacious, daring him to object. But approach they would, given time…

It didn’t take long this visit. He’d assumed that the loudmouth would be the first to find him, seeming to be the more obviously aggressive of the two, but Sherlock was pleasantly surprised to find that it was the Persian who first joined him at the bar.

“It’s not polite to stare.” she said, and ordered a juice from the bartender.

“Polite? No. Effective? Well,” Sherlock turned to face her, with a small smirk. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

She melted a bit around the edges, at that, although she clearly tried to hide it. “I’ve not seen you around.”

“I’ve been away.” Sherlock said, dismissively. “You’re brave to approach a stranger.”

“I’m not approaching anyone,” she said, aiming for nonchalant. “I was thirsty.”

“And yet, you came to this precise spot, beside the only available Dom standing at this bar.”

“Coincidence?” She said, uncertainly.

“Come, now. Your pupils are blown, your hands are damp enough to leave marks on the bar mat and you are currently mirroring my every move.”

She looked down and saw he was right about the mirroring, the realization leaving a slight blush on her cheeks. “Fine. Not coincidence,” she said, wiping her hands on a drink napkin.

Sherlock smiled. “That’s better. Now, tell me about your scar.”

“My scar?” She pulled back a bit, uneasy once more. “Oh. Are you one of those, then?”

“One of what’s?”

“Scar fetishists.” She said, with a bit of a snarl. “Always want to rub themselves along it, feel the ridges.”

“No, that’s not me “ said Sherlock. “I’m interested in your scar solely for the fact that you are not. Most people would hide it. You don’t. Why?”

She shrugged. “It’s a part of me. To hide it would be to hide who I am.”

“And who are you?”

She met his eyes. “Someone who needs to be of use…”

Sherlock lifted his chin and eyed her with appreciation. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he said, and extended his hand to stroke her cheek. “But you can call me Sir.”

****

 

 

Saman, for that was her name, followed instructions well enough, her dark eyes were adequately pleading, and the words that fell out of her mouth when she was over the bench should have been more than enough to carry Sherlock through to completion. But they weren’t. They didn’t even get him to the starting gate, his cock refusing to stir. In an effort to trip whichever trigger was eluding him, he moved her from punishment to punishment, to no avail. Eventually, he finished her over the spanking bench, stroking her clit until she came, until her legs shook, her tears still wet on her cheeks. He kissed her then, on the top of her head, on her lips and on each of her hands. “Good girl, Saman,” he said, with no small bit of embarrassment, and entrusted her to boy bob for safe transport home.

Sherlock wasn’t happy. The fault was clearly not with Saman, there was something else at play here, something within himself. A quick trip to the loo, he thought, might bring the spark back to the proceedings, just some alone time in a stall and all would be right as rain. It was vitally important that this happen tonight, Sherlock knew, because somewhere, across town, Victor and John were together and that fact made Sherlock felt astonishingly alone. Coming to this place always made him feel sharper, more in control, and infinitely wanted. But somehow, the wanting – and Saman had clearly wanted him – hadn’t been enough, hadn’t even been enough to make him hard. Something was desperately wrong.

He made his way to the loo, hoping for some time to clear his head, to grip his cock and get it back on line. Instead, what he found was a temptation – the loudmouth weight lifter from before, bare and bleeding from the waist up, his nose dusted in a fine, white powder.

Fuck.

Sherlock felt his cock stir, but he wasn’t sure if it was the man or the drug. Strike that, he was pretty sure it was the drug and not the man, but it was hard to separate the two at the moment. The loudmouth didn’t have the decency to hide in a stall, didn’t even have the decency to try and hide his drugs from Sherlock. He just grinned at the detective and wiped up the remaining residue on the aluminium counter, rubbing it along his gums.

“You know that bob will ban you from this place if he catches you.” Sherlock said, simply.

“He never banned you.” The loudmouth said, belligerently.

“Know me, do you?”

“I remember you.” Sherlock knew that the drug was starting to move through the man’s body, and he felt such _envy_. “You and that blond, the older guy. Years ago. He let me suck him once, in the prison cell.”

The dungeon was laid out as a series of rooms, all spanning out from a central hub. The hub was the main floor and the rooms that radiated out from it were theme rooms that could be reserved, for a price – the Victorian bedroom, the headmasters’ office, the prison cell, and the doctor’s office. Sherlock had never been overly fond of the theme rooms. For the most part, they felt contrived and stagey, although the prison room had been the locale of several fun nights tag-teaming with Victor, the dirty little fuck. Of course, on this night, Sherlock looked at the doctor’s office with renewed interest, and wondered if it would be too much of a busman’s holiday for John to ever play there.

_(John…who needed to get out of his head.)_

The loudmouth continued to chatter.

“…not you, though. You never let me play, Daddy…”

Sherlock held up a hand. “Stop. No. I’m not anyone’s Daddy.”

“I’m…sorry. The word just sort of…does things to me.” explained the loudmouth, pleasingly embarrassed by his misstep. “Make it up to you? Join me in a line?”

Sherlock clenched his fists and closed his eyes, pilomotor reflex kicking in, causing _cutis anserina_ , goose flesh, to rise in his forearms. The loudmouth held up the small baggie, and Sherlock actually felt himself get hard at the fucking sight of it.

A night without limits, he’d promised himself in the flat, and even then he’d known it would come down to this: chasing orgasms, chasing a high, hopefully both at the same time.  He’d known it when he’d lined his pockets with enough cash to pay for the drugs, just in case he couldn’t find someone willing to give it away for free. It was a foregone conclusion then, so who was he to argue with it now?

“All right then,” Sherlock acquiesced. “but let’s go in the stall. And if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you suck me after…”

****

 

 

The high was…gorgeous, and oh, how he had missed this…

Sherlock’s head reeled, as the neurotransmitters built up between the nerves, norepinephrine, serotonin, dopamine, lovely, fantastic, flooding his brain, and he could feel them, the tide rising, making him alert and above it all, above worry and jealousy and fear and loneliness. He felt sharp, he felt like the man he’d been before, the man who would never have fled the that champagne suite, not over the rejection of some invalid doctor…

_(…except he wasn’t just some invalid, was he? He was brilliant and beautiful and thought you we’re amazing, and not a freak at all…)_

He tried to put everything out of his mind when he fucked the loudmouth’s throat, slamming him into the tile wall beside the toilet, and making him take it, because he deserved it, because he needed it, because he fucking could and that was good enough to go for Sherlock right then. 

After a few minutes, though, no amount of vigor could hide the fact that Sherlock had softened. With a growl of frustration, he backed away from the loudmouth, leaning his body into the corner of the handicapped toilet, slamming his hand into the metal of the stall door

“It’s okay,” the other man started.

“No, it’s not.” Sherlock said, definitively.

“It’s the dru—“

“Touch yourself.” Sherlock interrupted, echoing his words from the suite. The other man responded without hesitation, and, Sherlock noted, _without_ a blush. The man pulled his zip and pulled out his cock, which proved to be disappointingly small in relation to the size of his frame. He groaned as he gripped himself, and stroked roughly, looking to Sherlock for approval. 

“Can you make yourself cum for me?” Sherlock asked, again, repeating the question from before. The man nodded with a growl, but was well-trained enough to know that the question in and of itself did not grant permission. Sherlock felt dizzy, and not at all sure why he was doing this. This man was not John. And yet…

“Cum for me, then, I want to watch you.” He repeated, like an incantation, the last of the words he’d said to John that night, the words that had set the events of the last 24 hours into motion. But this man was not his flatmate, would never have killed for him, had never been to Afghanistan, much less developed PTSD, and would not run off in a literal panic. Instead he stood there, and stroked himself to cumming, as ordered, and Sherlock watched, because he could, because he would have, had John stayed.

_(If only John had stayed.)_

Afterward, Sherlock deflected the man’s offers to bring him off, knowing it was not going to happen in here, with him, right now, but he did accept another line in lieu of orgasm. The loudmouth was only happy to oblige.

Upon leaving the men’s, Sherlock considered a change of venue, perhaps take a run up to visit an old associate, someone whose phone number was etched forever in his brain, a phone number he used to dream about. He knew the number the way people know their lover’s numbers, by touch, by the pattern on the dial of the phone, by the way your fingers move across the buttons. He punched the numbers into his new phone, not really expecting it to connect.

It had, after all, been seven years.

“Hello,” he said, when the voice picked up on the other end. “Miss me?”

 

 

 

****

The cold bit into Sherlock when he finally left the club, but he didn’t have to walk far. As he crossed the street to hail a taxi, a black limousine pulled up to the curb, blocking his path.

Sherlock groaned. “No, fuck no, Mycroft, you interfering shit.”

A rear window rolled down, confirming that Mycroft was, in fact, inside the car. “Sherlock, I wouldn’t have to interfere if you weren’t so dogged in your determination to self-destruct.”

“Fuck off. I was having a night out.”

“Oh, let me guess: one that starts with untold sexual depravity and ends with you at Baker Street, holed up with an eight-ball?”

Sherlock hissed. “You really want to talk about this in public? Blocking traffic?”

“No, I’d much rather you get in the car and talk in private.”

“Why should I?”

“Because it’s warm, because I’ll give you a lift home, and because I’m your big brother and I thought you understood by now that I. Always. Win.” Mycroft sang, and punctuated his words by abruptly rolling up his window. The car door opened, an invitation, a command.

Traffic began to honk at the limo, and passersby dodged around it in order to cross the street. Sherlock exhaled, frustrated, hating to prove Mycroft right. In the end, he’d get in the damned car, but only because it was fucking cold.

Inside, he found that he and Mycroft were not alone. His brother’s ever-texting assistant, Anthea (“Oh, actually, it Xanthe now…”) sat across from him, and a grey-haired gent in a suspicious white lab coat sat in the seat beside him.

“What’s all this, Mycroft? Bit early for an intervention isn’t it?”

Mycroft smirked. “This is an intervention, in a matter of speaking. Are you, in fact, high right now, Sherlock?”

“It’s really none of your business…”

“Doctor?” White Lab Coat grabbed his wrist, felt his pulse, flashed a light in his eyes, and nodded once to Mycroft. Sherlock snatched his arm back, angrily. “That cannot possibly have been an accurate examination, what the hel—ow, you bastard, that hurt!”

On Mycroft’s nod, the Doctor had jabbed a needle into Sherlock’s upper arm, through his clothing, and pushed the plunger.

“What did you just do?” Sherlock was wild-eyed. “Mycroft, what the fuck?”

“Settle down, it’s harmless.” He intoned, picking an invisible piece of lint from his collar. “An experimental vaccine, very successfully tested, combines the elements of the common cold virus with the particle GNE, which mimics cocaine. They say the vaccine eats up cocaine in the blood like – Xanthe, what was the reference?”

“Like Pac-Man.” She said, eyes still on her mobile.

Mycroft smiled, delighted at the imagery. “Right, exactly, they say it eats up the cocaine in your blood like a little Pac-Man before it can reach the brain.”

“Experimental vaccine, Mycroft?” Sherlock was aghast. “YOU GAVE ME AN EXPERIMENTAL VACCINE?”

“Do calm down, Sherlock, it’s not like it lasts forever. It requires a booster to keep working, although, frankly, we’re not sure yet how often the booster shots are actually needed.” Mycroft said, nonchalantly, and then narrowed. “Look, you left me no other choice, Sherlock. Seven years sober, and first I’m told that surprise, surprise, Victor Trevor, of all people, is back in town. Then I hear about your rash of visits to the cash machines this evening, followed by a visit to this…dungeon, this place where you’ve used in the past. To top it off, you placed a phone call to your former dealer, not five minutes ago - what’s the matter, Sherlock – already exhausted Victor’s ample supplies?”

“Let’s not bring Victor into this…” Sherlock rubbed his arm, defensively.

“Did he give you the drug, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, pointedly. “I need to know.”

“No, he didn’t give me anything! Unlike my bloody brother…”

Mycroft stared at him. “All right then, give me your money.”

“What? Why?”

“The drug takes 24 hours to go into full effect. I don’t want you to do something foolish like blow a stack of cash on a drug that, very soon, will no longer effect your body.” Mycroft held out his hand. “I’ll bring it back to you in 24 hours.”

“Fine,” Sherlock shrugged, handing over the stack of bills. “I can always go to another cash machine, you know.”

Mycroft took the money and handed it to Xanthe. “You could, but it would be a rather pointless exercise, as your accounts have all been frozen.”

Sherlock gaped. “You utter shit!”

“Such vulgarities, Sherlock, Mummy would be most upset.” The car pulled up to the curb in front of 221b Baker Street, and Mycroft straightened his tie. “The vaccine is safe, Sherlock. You are the only danger to yourself. This relapse will be your last, at least until the booster is needed. Go upstairs, get some rest, and eat something, for god’s sake. I’ll check in with you in 24 hours.”

The limo pulled away from the curb, leaving Sherlock, literally and figuratively, out in the cold.

****

 

It had been a most unsatisfying evening.

Sherlock had been blocked at every turn, by his own body, by his bloody brother, by the vaccine that was slowly leeching away whatever was left of the drugs in his system. As if all that weren’t enough, he was legitimately destitute for the next 24 hours, a reality which trapped him here, in this flat, unless he was willing to trek through the cold on foot.

Not that he had anywhere to go.

He toyed with the thought of texting John or Victor, but he quickly banished the idea as desperate and pathetic. He also didn’t particularly want to tell either one of them about his pathetically short “relapse” (as if two lines even qualified as one), nor about Mycroft’s “vaccine” (which, let’s face it, was likely a placebo, it simply had to be). There was only so much he could expect his friends to stomach, and this was quite a bit…much.

Sherlock fired off a series of angry texts to Mycroft, an angry e-mail to his banking institution and set off a flamewar in a particularly virulent hacker forum, just because he could.

In boredom, he also opened up John’s computer, reset his password for the fifth time that week and curious, decided to click on his search history. The listings were completely predictable, for the most part, from most recent links to least: _porn, menswear, “Joe Strummer” youtube, advanced password encryption, “British post mortem law”, bdsm chopsticks, Tottenham Hotspurs, porn, ebay (Sig Sauer P226 grips), al-anon, basic password encryption, porn, “Sherlock Holmes”, porn…_

Sherlock paused. 

John had Googled… _him_?

Sherlock knew there was nothing particularly incriminating about him online. His brother had scrubbed the internet long ago of anything that might harm the Holmes family. The most damaging thing John was likely to have found was Sherlock’s unfortunate class photo from Second Form – which Mycroft had left online on purpose. Then again, it wasn’t the grossest humiliation -- who _isn’t_ unfortunate in Second Form? Anything current would be either something John himself would have written, or newspaper articles from cases, including those bloody ear-hat pictures, which he’d just as soon have Mycroft scrub as well.

But the fact remained that John had researched him, had typed in his name – and the order of the search history certainly seemed to indicate that the search for Sherlock was conducted in between porn sessions.

Sherlock gave that a very long, lingering thought. John would have sat here, in his chair, or over at the desk, and searched him, possibly when Sherlock was in the very same room. John must’ve been curious about something, must’ve been thinking about him, clearly, looking for information that he was too shy to ask the detective for directly.

Sherlock imagined what might have happened if he’d caught John on that day, typing in his name. Would the good doctor have attempted to obscure his motives? No doubt he would have claimed it was somehow blog-related, or some such nonsense, and he imagined the way his Adam’s apple would have bobbed with every nervous swallow. Sherlock might’ve then leaned in a little closer than necessary, just to make John’s heart race, because it most certainly would have -- especially if he were to have explained precisely why John’s search had nothing to do with his blog and everything to do with wanting to be properly fucked by Sherlock.

Oh, if that weren’t magnificent, imagining saying those words to John, especially if the search had occurred _before_ John’s kink and sexuality were common knowledge, before Victor, when it was still just the two of them, Sherlock and John...

Sherlock felt his spine relax, felt his brain switch – and he considered something very specific that he used to do, before John moved in.

 Something that did not require money or transportation or drugs.

Something that could redeem the night entirely.

****

 

 

In Sherlock’s bedroom, there is a photograph of Dmitri Mendeleev on his wall, and a locked trunk in his closet.

Both the photograph and the trunk contain secrets.

That night, he locked the doors to the flat, locked the doors to his bedroom, pulled the shade closed on the window and stripped down to his pants, revealing pale flesh and firm muscle, thighs taut, calves flexing as he paced the room. Sherlock threaded his hands in his hair, and closed his eyes, listening to himself breathe.

A moment later, his eyes opened.

“All right _,”_ he said, to no one but himself. “Okay…”

His hand plucked the Mendeleev photograph off the wall, revealing a sturdy eye-hook, anchored deep inside the plaster. He stroked the hook with his hand, tugging on it, resisting the sudden urge to taste the metal in his mouth, to run his tongue through the opening and lick, to bite down on it with his back teeth and make his fillings sing.

It wasn’t the first time he’d felt so compelled…

In the trunk, the components were stored apart from each another, to deflect suspicion: the reel and the dead man, the rope and the mechanism, four points on his compass, stored in the four corners of his trunk.

He could put it together in his sleep, knew every piece by feel, a uniquely tactile pleasure -- the slide of the button, the feel of the switch, handmade fifteen years ago from spare Heathkit parts, remnants of a precocious childhood.

The assembly process just something he knew by heart, like a memorized formula, something that can never be un-known…

_(…feed the 16mm double braid nylon rope into the reel, engage the mechanism, leave enough slack to thread it through the eye hook and attach it to the dead man. Drape it and tighten, using the mechanism. Press the button to override the dead man and then tighten further. Release the button to test: once, twice, three times…the testing more for ritual than reassurance. Safety is just an illusion…)_

When assembly was complete, Sherlock grabbed the bottle of lube and folded a bath towel into thirds, placing it on the floor directly in front of the hook. As an afterthought, he hastily scribbled three sentences onto a scrap piece of paper and pinned it to his pillow.

He carefully placed the headphones into his ears, his fingers directing the mp3 player to the right playlist and then, to the right track. He dropped his knees to the towel beneath the hook, draped the cord loosely around his neck, and hit “play”.

When the music started, he closed his eyes and gave in, feeling it wash over him and through him, allowing select moments from the last few days to surface and replay…the taste of Victor’s lips…the feel of Darcy ‘s hands trailing over his shoulders…the sight of John’s obscenely swollen mouth after his night with the bartender…the anger in John’s eyes when Sherlock flirted with Darcy…and then, oh god, that first, tentative look, the look they’d shared over her shoulder…watching John touch himself, and Sherlock touching himself in return, himwatchingJohnwatchinghim, a continuous circuit of desire, oh, fuck…

Sherlock lubed his right hand, and picked up the dead man switch with his left. He rolled his shoulders and gave a long, precise pull on his cock that left him shuddering, with just the tickle of the rope, slack around his neck. The temptation was to move quickly, but no. It was better when it was slow, and this was the hardest part, the holding back, the making it last. His thumb sought out the button on the dead man and pressed down firmly. Once pressed, he leaned forward, just an inch, just far enough for that tickle to became a touch…

…he remembered the picture on the wall, pushed askew by John, his body no doubt shoved into it by an impatient Victor…and all at once, Sherlock imagined John, off-balance and scrambling, out-of-control and desperate, being herded like a sheep into a paddock, a lamb led to slaughter…Sherlock moaned, practically seeing John beneath Victor, their bodies tight together on John’s upstairs bed and it made him sick with envy and slick with lust, suddenly desperate to know the sounds that John made when he came…he pictured Victor touching John and then Sherlock was touching him by proxy, fucking him by proxy, and after all, it was _his_ stolen plug stretching John’s arse, causing him such pretty distress, goddamn…

He leaned in a little farther, and the touch at his throat was now a press, more insistent, rough now against the skin, his hand working faster now, the image of the plug -- bought in Alex’s store, taken from that locked glass cabinet, fuck --  that very fucking plug in John Watson’s arse, making it gape and pulse and Sherlock growled, shouted as his hips thrust into his hand. Sherlock’s heart raced, as John’s must have, when the plug.pressed.in, and Sherlock was desperate, yearning to know if he’d been restrained, if he’d been experienced enough to know when to avert his eyes, if he’d been made to beg for it…

…Sherlock’s lean became a push when he was no longer satisfied by the pull of gravity alone. He forced his quadriceps forward, causing the cord to cut into his throat, sending adrenaline coursing through his body. Another push and the blood flow in his brain was constricted enough to make him lightheaded. Fuck you, Pac-Man, hello cerebral hypoxia, Sherlock thought, giddy now, wanting John here, wanting to grind their cocks together in a slippery, sticky collision, wanting John to taste his cum, and wanting to taste John’s tears -- and by tasting them, absorb them into his own body, forever…

Sherlock thrashed the full weight of his body against the taut cord. His thumb on the dead man switch ached and trembled, the muscle stiff and weakening. If Sherlock has still been capable of logical thought at that moment, he would have willed his thumb to stay in place because he was so very _close_ \-- but as it was, all he was capable of doing was thinking about John looking up at him, John taking him into his mouth, John blushing and stammering and crying and calling out his name and cumming for Sherlock, the way Sherlock was cumming right now for John, for John and only John, John’s name on his lips, once again, and just then, the world went dark. Sherlock’s thumb slid off the button, engaging the dead man switch, which instantly killed the mechanism, released the rope and sent Sherlock falling face-first onto the floor, the drop shocking him back into awareness.

As the world came back into focus, Sherlock rolled over onto his back, feeling supremely and unequivocally alive. And it was in that extraordinary moment that Sherlock Holmes finally admitted to himself that John Watson had become something considerably more to him than just a flatmate.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> \- Okay, right off the bat I want to address the elephant in the room: breathplay, and very specifically autoerotic asphyxia practices as described in this fic, are incredibly dangerous activities with [potentially fatal consequences](http://abcnews.go.com/Health/story?id=7764618). Many argue that [there is NO safe way to participate in breathplay](http://www.idahobdsm.com/articles/howto/breath.html). Jay Wiseman, author of [BDSM 101](http://www.amazon.com/Sm-101-A-Realistic-Introduction/dp/0963976389), makes a strong case AGAINST breathplay in all its forms [in this essay from 1997](http://www.telecomassociation.com/pubs/chokinggamereport/files/aea3.htm). This fic should in no way be seen as an endorsement of breathplay, nor as encouragement for readers to engage in breathplay activities. The description of the device, its components and its assembly are ENTIRELY FICTIONAL, not based on any sort of actual mechanical or electronic knowledge and are definitely not meant to be instructional in any way. Some things are better left to fantasy – and fan fiction, people – and this is definitely one of those things. Stay safe!
> 
> \- [Sherlock’s badass Richard James suit](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2008/11/04/article-1083064-02E0695C00000578-714_634x766.jpg)
> 
> \- Saman’s scar – as well as her attitude toward it – was inspired by [Padma Lakshmi](http://www.emedoutlet.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/Padma-lakshmi-scar.jpg), whose seven-inch scar was caused by a car accident when she was 14. Of her scar, she says: "I love it because it makes me a person who has an interesting past, and it reminds me that I can survive any pain.”
> 
> \- Yes, Sherlock, [Mycroft’s Pac-Man vaccine is a real thing](http://www.wired.co.uk/news/archive/2013-05/13/anti-cocaine-vaccine)!
> 
> \- [The photograph of Dmitri Mendeleev, in Sherlock’s bedroom](http://sc.aithine.org/sherlock/201/11/sherlock-201-10934.jpg), just below the lamp (now you know what’s behind it)!
> 
> \- Curious about Sherlock’s hastily scribbled note in that last scene? As a crime scene investigator, of course Sherlock would leave a note, just to make things perfectly clear, should the worst come to pass. Here _could have been_ Sherlock Holmes’ last dying words:
> 
>   _This was not a suicide attempt._  
>  _Cause of death is, in fact, precisely what you think it is._  
>  _(P.S. To my dear brother Mycroft, let it be known that my demise should in no way serve as an excuse for you to eat your feelings…)_
> 
>  - Almost forgot! Wanna know what Sherlock was listening to on his mp3 player? [it was this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lC3R2Q5es4A). Yeah, I know. Call me a cliche, but at least it's relatively new shit. And besides, I defy that man's voice not to get you off...
> 
>  
> 
> This one was a big chapter, hope you enjoyed it!  
> Thanks, as always, for the kudos and comments!  
> vex.


	15. "Seven Year Itch"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse inside Victor and John's date, and its somewhat surprising conclusion...

 

“No, I mean it,” John said, with a laugh. “You crack safes, you count cards…”

Victor pinched his shoulder as they passed the casino cashiers, saying under his breath. “I’m flattered, John, but maybe this is not the best place to discuss _that_ particular skill.”

John snorted and lowered his voice, continuing the line of discussion. “Even your name – _Victor Trevor_ – I mean, name like that, I feel like you should be pining away on the moors or something.”

“I’m hardly the pining type, John. Besides, if you’re dooming me to Victorian England, then at least let me lounge around an opium den with Oscar Wilde.”

“Like that, would you?” John smirked. “I suppose he would be your speed.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Victor said, with a leer, and a not-so-subtle grab of John’s ass. “I’ve always found the unassuming ones to be the most fun…”

For once, John didn’t protest the leer or the public grab-ass, allowing himself to shut the fuck up and enjoy the attention. It had been a good night so far. Dinner had been Moroccan, the sweet and the savory, eating with their fingers at a low table, unexpectedly romantic. The cab ride to the casino had been far too short, their tongues loosened with just the right amount of honey beer…

“All I’m saying is that there are only so many attractive characteristics that one man should be allowed to have.” John explained, as Victor lit a cigarette. “I mean, you’ve got the stupidly handsome thing going on – which really, should be more than enough – but you’re also bloody charismatic and then with the bad boy thing, and Jesus, the sex…it’s really not fair.” John snagged a drink from a passing cocktail waitress.  “Thank god you dress for shite, it’s my only saving grace. If you owned a real suit, I’d be dead, flat out gone.”

“What? It’s vintage, man!” Victor protested. John had noticed the rather remarkable trousers he’d been wearing at Lily’s, but he’d never dreamed them to be part of an actual suit until Victor had slipped into the jacket before walking into the restaurant. It was an ill-fitting, slim-cut, light blue herringbone suit, with light brown buttons and a black leather notch collar. To be honest, John wasn’t even sure if it was a men’s suit at all (and frankly, neither was Victor, but he liked the cut).  And yet, if anyone could pull it off, Victor could…

The older man responded further with a cuff to the back of John’s head. “And oh, I feel so sorry for you, John Watson. How about you try measuring up to a fucking War Hero, to a goddamned Doctor, to a crack shot who takes out a man across two buildings, through two panes of glass, just in the nick of time to save a man he hardly knows? And I’m not gonna say a word about your nickname -- ”

“That nickname was,” interrupted John, who paused for a moment and then reconsidered his protest. “Well, entirely well-deserved, now that I think about it. But it doesn’t make us even, not by half!”

Victor threw his arm once more over John’s shoulder and they made their way back to the blackjack tables. They’d already played a little roulette, and John had watched Victor play a few hands of Pai Gao, but he’d had a hard time following the play of the tiles on the table. Eventually they’d ended up playing Blackjack, where Victor’s skills proved to be just as good as Sherlock had promised. They had to moderate their wins, to alleviate suspicion, and John had insisted on playing a few hands “the right way”, with no counting. Between the two of them, by midnight, with very modest betting, they were up about £350, and Sherlock was well on his way to getting that microscope.

They moved to a new table with a new dealer – a dealer who, John noticed, had been eyefucking Victor from halfway across the room. The doctor’s hackles rose, and so he made sure to press unnecessarily close to the American as he slipped into his chair, and to whisper intimately into his ear, making his prior claim crystal clear to any and all interested parties at the table. Submissive or no, John wasn’t an idiot. He knew that if he was going to run with stupidly handsome men like Victor or Sherlock, he would have to develop some kind of strategic defense against poachers.

As it would turn out, the new dealer got the message and kept his eyes on the cards. Hands were dealt, and they were halfway through their fourth game, when a new player joined the table – one who carried an umbrella and a generally dismissive air.

“Dr. Watson, I would have thought you’d have better taste,” the newcomer said, anteing up for the next hand.

John stammered, surprised by the man’s unexpected appearance at the table. “Mycroft? I never would’ve pegged you as a gambling man!”

“Of course he’s a consummate gambler, John – just look at what he does for a living!” Victor snarked, before turning to the dealer. “Hit me.”

“Victor.” Mycroft said in a tone that was not at all pleasant. “I see you’re up to your old tricks again.”

“It’s been a long time, but it’s never quite long enough, is it?” Victor said, with a smirk.  “Do I have you to thank for the exceedingly thorough pat-down I received at the airport this visit?”

John couldn’t hold back the laugh that formed in his throat and absentmindedly tapped the felt for the dealer to hit him. A three of hearts, followed by a Jack of spades, which promptly took him well over 21, a bust.

The elder Holmes tried to remain unfazed, but his voice practically dripped with poison. “Oh good, so it’s just a _visit_ then. Here’s hoping it remains as brief a stay as possible.” Mycroft nodded for another card, and gestured to stay at 17.

Victor folded.

“To what do we owe this pleasure, Mycroft?”  John asked, his voice clipped, suddenly reading the lines on the man’s face. “Everything alright?”

“No, not quite, I’m afraid.” Mycroft watched as the dealer turned a card. The dealer’s hand busted at 24 and Mycroft won the hand. He collected his small winnings from the table and stood up, eyeing Victor intently. “It’s a Danger Night.”

Victor froze, and John watched the look pass between the two men. “Danger Night, what the fuck’s that?”

****

 

Outside on the pavement, Victor protested as Mycroft’s car pulled up to the kerb. “He was fine when we left!”

“Well, he’s not now.” Mycroft said, grimly. “But I’m not here to see you or hear your excuses. I’m here for John.” He turned to the smaller man, who was still trying to sort out what was happening. “John, you need to go home. Sherlock needs you.”

“Just tell us what’s happened.” John said, his voice a half-step away from panic. “Is he ill?”

“No, he just shouldn’t be alone tonight.” Mycroft said, cryptically, and opened the car door. “I’ll give you a lift to Baker Street.”

“You’ll be giving us both a lift, then.” Victor insisted. “I’ve been through this before, Mycroft, you know I have. John is not prepared…”

The government man eyed him with suspicion. “That depends. Are you…holding? Turn out your pockets…”

“I’m not ‘holding’ – Jesus, Mycroft, what movies have you been watching?” Victor mocked, and then, rolling his eyes, he held up his hand in a three-fingered Boy Scout salute, and said. “I solemnly swear that I am not currently carrying any drugs on or about my person, happy now?”

Mycroft checked his watch. “Fine, I don’t have time to argue. He’s been left to his own devices long enough, there’s no more time to spare. Get in.”

They all loaded into the car. Anthea/Xanthe and White Lab Coat were long gone, having been dropped off well before Mycroft’s contacts had been able to pinpoint John’s exact location via his phone’s GPS.

“If time was of the essence, why didn’t you just call me?” John asked.

“No signal,” Victor said, beating Mycroft to the punch. “Casinos always jam it.”

“Correct. We were able to pinpoint you in the parking lot. And then once we knew who you were with, it wasn’t that hard to know exactly where to find you.”

Victor made a face at Mycroft. “You know me so well, don’t you, sweetheart?” The Yank stretched his legs out in front of him, belligerently taking up more than his allotted real estate in the car. “What I want to know is, if Sherlock was in such a bad way, why’d you leave him in the first place, big brother?”

Mycroft sighed. “He was angry with me. I’d frozen his accounts, took his money, made sure he got home safely. There wasn’t much else I could do. You know he won’t talk to me when he’s like that. He’ll talk to John.”

“He’ll talk to me!” Victor said, frustrated.

“Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?!?!” John sputtered, feeling like the dimmest student in class. “I get that something’s wrong with Sherlock, but what is ‘Danger Night’? A code word or something?”

“Exactly a code word,” explained Victor. “Something Mycroft came up with a long time ago. Not very clever, but accurate, I suppose.” He pressed his hand against John’s thigh, a calming touch. “It means that Sherlock is using, or close to using.”

John’s veins ran cold. “Which is it, Mycroft?”

“He used tonight. At that club, that dungeon…”

“At Haven? Fuck…” said Victor, his mouth going tight.

“Used what, exactly, do we know?” John clicked into physician mode. “And how much?”

“Judging strictly by his behavior tonight, and factoring in his past preferences? Cocaine.” Mycroft plucked at the pleat on his trousers, distracted “I don’t know how much. He did call his old dealer, but I grabbed him before he got there.”

“Goddamn it…” Victor hit the door with the flat of his hand. “Seven goddamn years, Mycroft.”

“Seven year itch.” Mycroft cleared his throat, and straightened a bit in his seat, dismissing the rise of emotion in his throat. “I blame you, of course. If you hadn’t returned…”

“You can’t possibly blame me for this!” Victor shook his head, voice louder.

“You are a trigger, Victor, even you must admit –“

“CAN YOU BOTH KINDLY SHUT THE FUCK UP?” John interrupted, holding out his hands to both of them. “Sherlock’s in trouble, can we all please focus on that? Mycroft, when you left him, he was high?”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to disclose the existence of the vaccine, nor of its unconventional use on his brother. “Yes, but the effects would have worn off by now. He’s in no physical danger from the drug at present.”

John chewed on his response. “So, you’re just worried that he’s…what? Sad?”

“My little brother can be self-destructive, John.”

“What are you saying?” John swallowed deeply. “You think he might…kill himself or something?”

“I do not think he should be alone.” Mycroft said, stubbornly refusing to elaborate. “What I’m truly curious to understand is what exactly happened this evening. What set off this particular self-destructive jag.”

Victor stirred. “Look, man, last I saw, he was having a good night – he’d made some brilliant deductions on a case, he was in, you know, boy-genius detective mode. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Well, something set him off.” Mycroft fretted.

John’s mouth snapped shut, and he thought about the last exchange he’d had with Sherlock, at Lily’s, the conversation out on the patio and John’s pointed explanation of the origin of John and Victor’s relationship. Guilt swarmed inside his brain.

The car pulled up to the Baker Street flat for the second time that night. Mycroft wrapped things up. “I’ll be back tomorrow with Sherlock’s money. In the meantime, I implore you, do not give him any of yours. Keep him away from alcohol and call me with updates.”

Victor exited the car, and John turned to follow, but was momentarily stopped by Mycroft’s hand. “John, I can’t stop you from associating with Victor Trevor, but he is a hazard, to both you and Sherlock. Trust me on this. I’ve seen the influence he has on my brother. If you must keep his company, please keep an eye on him. Don’t let him drag either of you down. I’m counting on you to protect Sherlock.”

Victor poked an impatient head into the cab of the car. “You do know I can hear you, right?” He turned on a perfect imitation of Mycroft scolding Sherlock. “Such rudeness, Mycroft, Mummy would be most upset!”

John smiled, and it was Mycroft’s turn to snap his mouth shut.

“I’ll be in touch,” John assured him. “I’m sure your brother will be fine. Probably just pouting over a botched experiment or something.”

Mycroft nodded doubtfully, but nodded nevertheless. John got out of the car, and took Victor’s hand as they entered 221B.

****

 

They could hear it from the stairwell -- violin music, disjointed, frenetic, manic...

John looked at Victor and they doubled their speed up the steps, entering the flat to find the sitting room dark, but booming with music. Sherlock was caught completely unaware, bare-chested in pajama bottoms, his violin beneath his chin. He moved with his back to the door, silhouetted by the streetlight outside the window, utterly lost in the music -- both the music he was making as well as the music that was playing in his ears. They could see the headphones, glowing white in the dim room, and they knew at once that Sherlock could not have heard them enter.

Victor and John stayed in the shadows, at the edge of the room, open mouthed, watching him play with an abandon that at least one of them had never thought possible. On any other night, Sherlock Holmes was a study in restraint – god, not his tongue, of course – but from his posture to his manner of speech to the meticulous way he dressed, everything about him was formal, controlled, held in reserve.

But this Sherlock Holmes was different.

This was Sherlock when he was alone, without an audience, a Sherlock that was free to improvise, to try new things, to fearlessly throw himself into a spontaneous melody and then stop, shift, try again, a grand collaboration with the unseen musicians in his head. Of course it had sounded disjointed from the stairs – they could only hear half the song! What they were watching, John and Victor, was the musical equivalent of Sherlock at a crime scene, dashing from one inspiration to the next, finding the hidden thread that linked the notes and marveling, reveling, in his own inimitable skill and unparalleled cleverness. Gone was the icy, textbook precision of his usual performances. Gone, too, was the sardonic slap-dash sawing he’d do just to annoy Mycroft. Tonight, Sherlock was unapologetically expressive, his hand dancing along the instrument’s neck, his bow grip relaxed, making the sound seem richer, rounder, gorgeous. His body rolled with the music, bent and twisted with it and it was hypnotic, to see him so very much alive.

Victor actually did recognize this wild-eyed version of Sherlock, because as much as this was Sherlock at a crime scene, this was also Sherlock in “the scene”, at Haven, in his bedroom, pressing a sub against the hood of a car or flogging them as they dangled from their restraints. On a night when he was at the top of his game, Sherlock would linger in this mad-manic place, edging himself and his partner until they both collapsed, same feral look in his eyes, his chest shining with sweat from exertion.

He wasn’t like this with the drugs, Victor realized. They dulled him, even the cocaine, flattened him out to where he could not find happiness in anything but the drugs themselves. If Sherlock had, in fact, gotten high this evening, this performance was not happening as a result of that fall from the wagon. It was too joyful, too vibrant, too vital for that.

Sherlock moved from the couch to the coffee table to his chair without his feet ever touching the ground, playing at a fever pitch the whole way, notes flying out of his fingers so quickly that John ventured that the strings would have to be warm to the touch -- and the noise made him dizzy, his heart in his throat, praying that they wouldn’t be discovered, at least not until the song ended.

Sherlock talked to himself, and he’d shout now and then, when he’d hit upon a particular sequence that he liked. His shoulder muscles took a beating as he swung the bow, gripped the neck, the physicality of the music impossible to separate from the sound. The pace quickened, and with it, so did Sherlock’s movements. He concentrated, focusing on a distant point, the bullet-scarred wallpaper, and played with all the frenzy of a runaway train, passion trumping constraint, trumping fear, trumping loneliness and desperation and disgust and desire and Sherlock was channeling emotions into music, bypassing words altogether, a magic trick, an impressive, expressive slight of hand. In this singular stretch of time, they all held their breath as Sherlock reached the crescendo, as the strings sang until the song sounded like screaming, sounded like madness, swirling and echoing in ribbons around them, slowly dropping to the floor when Sherlock had finally and unequivocally reached the composition’s end.

He breathed deep in the aftermath, shuddering as he exhaled, allowing the instrument to slide out of his hands and into the cushion beneath him. His right hand yanked carelessly on the headphone cord, pulling the buds out of his ears and as he did, he turned to face the sitting room door – only to find himself unexpectedly face-to-face with John and Victor.

His breath caught in surprise, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, Sherlock stared at them, gaping, still gasping, his expression hard to parse, as it flickered with every last one of his emotions, all of them still so close to the surface. All three watched one another silently, locked in the moment. Sherlock felt the sweat on his skin begin to cool. The chills that had risen on John’s arms began to subside. Victor’s eyes zeroed in on the curious marks around his friend’s neck…

Instinctively, Victor broke from John and moved to Sherlock’s side. Putting his hand to the man’s jaw, Victor pressed their foreheads together; speaking so quietly that John couldn’t make out their conversation. Sherlock was listening intently, at first angrily, then remorsefully and then he seemed to acquiesce to something. The topic changed, and Sherlock was smiling, one of his shy smiles, the kind he made when he thought no one was looking. Victor smiled back, conspiratorially, and took Sherlock’s left hand in his, before turning back to face John.

It took him a minute to process exactly what was happening, and in that minute, John felt a small sting of jealousy, thinking he’d been abandoned for Sherlock.

_(Not that he could blame Victor, not really. Sherlock was beautiful and tall and brilliant and they’d known each other forever. Let’s face it, both of these men **were** entirely out of his league, he’d been living in some sort of fantasy wor--)_

“Stop it, John!” Sherlock said decisively, making a show of huffing his breath and rolling his eyes before sputtering, “Honestly...” He crossed the room in haste, with Victor still in tow – and then, clasping John firmly at the back of his neck, and before anyone had a chance to protest, Sherlock Holmes kissed John Watson.

John’s world _spun_. Sherlock ’s lips were soft, his tongue was clever, insistent, and the pull at John’s neck was so perfectly possessive, it made him feel weak. Sherlock’s sudden proximity was overwhelming, his scent mesmerizing, the very taste of the man in his mouth – dear god, John thought, how was it possible that he now knew what Sherlock _tasted_ like? He reeled, every ounce of his being responding to this impossible, inevitable kiss, and he knew that this kiss was bound to become the one he’d measure all other kisses against, from now until the bitter end of time.

Sherlock still held on to John’s neck when he eventually, hesitatingly pulled himself away from his mouth. He stared down at John with a maddeningly satisfied look on his face, and with Victor still holding on to his left hand, Sherlock led the both of them down the hallway and into his bedroom…

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> Oh, lovelies, a dreadful tease, I know (and isn’t it delicious)? But next time should be quite a bit of fun, don’t you think? It’s enough to keep you positively on edge...
> 
> Here’s a few choice notes to tide you over until then...
> 
>    
> \- [The only casino that still admits Victor](http://www.thecasinolsq.com/)
> 
> \- [Victor’s badass vintage suit!](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/luffable/media/Haute%20Wax%20Blog/henry_holland_blue_vintage_su.jpg.html)
> 
> \- What was playing in Sherlock’s ears during his performance? Well, it could have been [this](https://www.openclassical.com/composer/Alexander_Scriabin/work/vers_la_flamme_opus_72?play_movie=WlqGkVc29Gw), but it could just have easily been [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfR_HWMzgyc), [ or this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ktvTqknDobU), or even [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_r2ywSxuYKE) \- whatever trips your personal trigger, friends! It’s a bit of a Choose Your Own Adventure, so choose wisely! 
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, and a bit of a shout out to the new peeps who have found their way to my Tumblr page -- this week, those folks got to see the pic of Victor’s suit in advance (although I didn’t tell them who, exactly, would be wearing it, as if there could have been any doubt), and it was fun, so I might try and do that a bit more in the future!
> 
> Until next time..  
> vex.


	16. "Lock The Door"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“A love triangle is a threesome delayed.”_  
>  Mokokoma Mokhonoana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr user [some-cool-name](http://some-cool-name.tumblr.com/) made some [fab art](http://i.imgur.com/FcwnIVU.jpg) for this chapter, check it out!

 

There was the kiss, first and foremost, the kiss that lingered, ghostlike, on John’s lips, Sherlock’s kiss, the kiss that quickened his pulse, making his heart thrum wildly in his chest…

_(…another rabbit…)_

…and just that one kiss was enough to make John’s insides shake with want, but in that moment, John had yet to fully understand that the kiss was just Sherlock’s opening salvo. In fact, it wasn’t until Sherlock pulled out of the kiss that John even realized Victor was standing there beside them. He felt instantly conflicted, until he realized that Sherlock and Victor were still holding hands, until Victor smiled at him, until he realized that Sherlock was now leading them down the hallway _together,_ and good god, John was gone, launched like a rocket into subspace at the thought of – fuck, he couldn’t even allow his brain to form the words to describe what was happening. Sherlock’s room at the end of the hall beckoned, and John felt warm and willing and achingly compliant.

Once inside, Sherlock’s hand pulled him back in for another kiss, and John felt himself positively swoon when Sherlock’s long fingers began stroking the nape of this neck. Victor simultaneously edged up behind John, wrapping his hands around his hips and pulling himself tightly against him. John gasped as Victor’s hand found his erection and began stroking it through his clothes. He felt Victor harden against him, felt Sherlock’s hand running up his inner thigh, and then there were two hands on his cock and fucking hell, if John thought he’d been swooning before, he seriously felt as if he might black out entirely.

“Too many clothes,” he heard Victor mumble, who pulled away and slapped John on the arse before leaving. From the corner of his eye, John could see Victor clumsily stripping off his suit.

“Agreed,” purred Sherlock, with a leer, already far more undressed than the other two. He leaned back and worked his fingers into the waistband of John’s trousers, tickling the skin underneath with just enough pressure to make John squirm. “Keeping our minds on crime scenes might prove to be a bit of a challenge after this, hmm?” Sherlock said, with a dramatic sigh and a luxurious pout. His eyes caught John’s and he paused.  “Sure you’re all right with all of this?”

“God, yes,” John nodded, and watched Sherlock’s fingers move inside his clothing, deftly flicking the button and his trouser front open. He had to force himself to look away then, though, knowing that if he watched those fingers reach into his pants, touch his cock – those fingers he’d fantasized about at the breakfast table, in the sitting room, in his bedroom late at night -- he’d cum before they’d even begun. Instead, John focused on Sherlock’s face, on that mop of hair, those extraordinary eyes, those fucking cheekbones, that gorgeous jawline, that –

“Sherlock? What the fuck?” His tone shifted immediately, suddenly serious, back from outer subspace.

“Don’t get prudish now, John…” Sherlock cajoled, unaware.

“No, you git – what’s happened to your neck?” With the flat of his palm, John pushed Sherlock backwards, so he could have a better look at the lightly raised pink line at the front of his throat. He ran a finger along it, felt the slight protrusion of the skin. “Feels like a rope burn – does that hurt?”

Sherlock pulled his hand away. “No, I’m bloody well fine, John, just got in a bit of a tangle tonight.”

“You’re not bloody well fine – it looks like someone garroted you!” John eyed him curiously. “Did this have something to do with the case?”

“Obliquely, yes. But it’s nothing for you to worry about.” Sherlock said dismissively, with a wave of his hand. “Certainly not when there are so many other things you _should_ be worrying about, John,” Sherlock eyes narrowed as he began a slow advance on John. John swallowed hard, and instinctively stepped backward, prompting Sherlock to move forward, his hands unbuttoning John’s new shirt, one maddening button at a time. “For example, there’s the fact that you, an admitted submissive, quite willingly entered this room with two very hungry Doms, John.” He kept moving forward until John’s back was up against the wall. “Foolish, don’t you think? Especially with Mrs. Hudson gone for the week. Anything could happen, no one would know…” Buttons undone, he flipped John’s shirt open and pressed his bare chest into John’s, forcing a sudden intake of breath from the both of them, skin on heated skin, delicious and intimate. 

Sherlock leaned in to him, his left forearm propped against the wall, his lips a breath away from the shell of John’s ear. “There’s also the fact that Victor and I have a history of this sort of thing, John. We’re used to working in tandem, and you have to know that together, we can take you apart in a hundred different ways.” John groaned at his words, shedding his trousers, and Sherlock responded by rolling his hips, the bloody bastard. His erection ground into John’s, and John realized that their cocks were separated by just a very few thin layers of fabric. The good doctor suddenly found he was having a great deal of difficulty breathing.

Sherlock smirked. “Victor,” he called out, without his eyes ever leaving John’s. “Lock the door.” 

John groaned again when he heard the door slam shut and the lock engage, and a pleasant kind of panic began to build inside, one that made him leak and struggle. Over Sherlock’s shoulder, John watched Victor move forward, the vintage suit now abandoned in a pile on the floor, and the American was as naked as the night John had first seen him in this room.

“You’ll want his mouth, Sherlock,” Victor said, stroking himself at the sight of the two of them shagging through their clothes. “He seems so clean and sweet, but goddamn, he could suck the chrome off a trailer-hitch...”

“Is that true?” Sherlock said with surprise, running his thumb absentmindedly over John’s lower lip. “Are you good at sucking cock, John?”

John blushed, the words sending a shiver that went straight through him, and yes, suddenly all he wanted was Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, to prove it. He looked away as he nodded, embarrassed.

“Show me.” Sherlock challenged, putting a hand to John’s shoulder and pushing him down to the ground, his back sliding against the wall. John looked up at him as he propped up on his knees. He pulled down Sherlock’s pajama bottoms with a degree of reverence, and oh, fuck, even his goddamned cock was beautiful, longer than he’d imagined, pale enough for the veins to be visible. Sherlock kicked the pajama bottoms away with no small bit of impatience. “Show me, John.”

 John gave an involuntary lick of his lips as Sherlock’s erection bobbed in front of him, and then, locking eyes with Sherlock, gave a long lick to his right palm before using it to grip the base of Sherlock’s cock, feeling it pulse, alive and insistent in his hand. He leaned forward, greedy, and took it into his mouth, immediately enveloping Sherlock in wet warmth, his tongue wrapping around him.

…and then it was Sherlock’s turn to groan.

John’s tongue lapped at the tip, sucking the pre-cum that had already beaded there, and tripped against the frenulum below, flicking it until Sherlock’s mouth went slack, until his hand went to John’s head and pulled on his hair, ever so slightly. That’s when John began sucking in earnest, hollowing his cheeks, trapping his cock in a vacuum in his mouth and pulling, oh, pulling so sweetly on the upstroke, fuck. The hair on Sherlock’s arms stood at attention, and he turned to look at Victor.

“You want in on this, Vic?”

“I’m just getting off on watching this, for now, thanks” he said, falling into the bed for a better look, and seriously pulling on his own member. “So fucking hot. Don’t be shy, either – the boy can take a throat fucking, isn’t that right, John?”

Sherlock looked down at John, arching his brows, the question unspoken but implied. John nodded once – _still that shy blush rising, fuck,_ thought Sherlock, _you shouldn’t be allowed to blush like that when you can do.this.so.well_. – and then John pushed himself backwards into the wall, his hand still gripping the base of Sherlock’s cock, feeling two pairs of eyes on him, the shame of being watched making him throb. John inhaled and relaxed his throat as Sherlock braced both his hands against the wall and rocked his hips forward, pressing his cock deep and oh, it was fucking heaven, tight and hot. When he pulled out again, John was gasping, so goddamned beautiful.

“I had no…idea, fuck…” Sherlock said, through gritted teeth, trying to resist the growing temptation to cum right there and then. “I used to think about this, you know, sometimes right here in this very bed. Four fucking months of wanking, John, to the thought of your mouth on me. At the time, I assumed I’d have to convince you to do it, maybe even trick you into it, with some trumped-up experiment. I never dreamed you’d be so…god, eager.”

John whimpered and hummed against him, swallowing him, the muscles contracting in his throat against Sherlock’s. “Of course, it begs the question of how, doesn’t it? How did you get so good at sucking cock, John? I imagine the army would be an excellent place for a cockslut like you…”

The word set John off, the sibilant sound of it on Sherlock’s lips, the dismissive tone, the shameful imagery that surfaced in John’s mind, some of it true, some of it imagined. With a whine, he stripped off his pants to free his cock, and reached down to tug himself. His hand was stopped with an abrupt slap.  “You don’t touch yourself without permission, slut, ” Sherlock scolded.

“Please?”

“No. Not yet. Suck.”

John redoubled his efforts, moving forward to meet Sherlock’s cock, to help him press it in farther.

Sherlock felt himself building to the inevitable end, but it was still early, far too early., and so he chattered, to derail his own thoughts. “Funny,” he said, voice quavering, “I always imagined that even if I could manipulate you into sucking me off, that you’d spit me out on the sheet after I came, nice boy like you.” Sherlock’s hands both twined in John’s hair and pulled him closer. John’s eyes began to tear up, and he coughed, rasping for air on the upstroke. “Now I’m beginning to think you might swallow me whole. Will you, John? When I do cum, eventually, will you swallow every drop?”

From deep inside, John growled, and rushing forward, tackled Sherlock, pushing him down onto his back, onto the floor, catching him completely by surprise. John clambered over his miles of legs, straddling his knees and Victor sat up, startled by the move, a look of delight rising on his face.

“With all due respect, Sherlock,” said John, voice ragged with desire. “I will fucking swallow every last drop, if you’ll stop fucking talking and let yourself cum for me.”

“You like it when I talk, John. I can see your cock jump when I say…things…” Sherlock said, with a smile, amused and surprised by John’s attempt to take control.

“Yes,” said John, “But when you talk, you ruddy bastard, it makes me want to cum.”

“All right. Let me make a few things crystal clear...” Sherlock sat up sharply, his voice all hardened steel. “So far, John, you’ve demonstrated an unexpectedly low threshold for frustration as well as very low impulse control, and while it amuses me -- I mean, it’s certainly not dull – it is undeniably rude.”

John opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced with a touch of Sherlock’s fingers to his lips. “Quiet now, I’m not finished.” Sherlock admonished, and John’s mouth closed. The taller man continued. “Further, if we’re to play, you’re to address me as ‘Sir’, same as Victor. Do be mindful of that. All of these disappointing behaviors call for discipline, John, so consider this your warning.  We’d _hate_ to have to punish you so early in the proceedings.”

From Sherlock’s intonation, it was clear that “hate” meant “love” and John suddenly felt grateful that this was their first scene. He doubted the man – the men, really, either of them – would be so lenient in the future. John looked to the floor. “Yes, Sir. I’m…sorry, Sir.”

“Good.” Sherlock reached for a fistful of John’s hair. “Now, regarding your last complaint: you, my dirty boy, are missing the point entirely. You’re a slut, so of course you want to cum. But you won’t. Not until I say, anyway. Not if you know what’s good for you. Now,” He released John’s hair with a slight push and stretched out on the floor. “Get back to work.”

John, so chastised, sat on the floor, on hands and knees, and took Sherlock’s cock back into his mouth. The turnabout had meant that he was now expected to impale his own throat on Sherlock’s cock – and his obscene mouth tried to make up for his transgressions by making the most delightful noises come out of the detective. John’s member leaked in response to Sherlock’s rumbling, and he fought to keep his mind off of how fucking incredible it would be to cum right this very minute, if only Sherlock would let him…

It was at that precise moment that Victor shifted from passive viewer to active participant, dropping to the floor beside the doctor. “Mind your head,” he drawled with a quirk, and slid his body beneath John’s until he was facing his perfectly distended erection. An expert flick of the tongue later and the Yankee bastard had taken John into his mouth.

“Oh, fucking hell, Sir…” John shuddered, feeling the wetness and warmth around himself now, as Victor matched his rhythm to John’s. “Not bloody fair…” John whinged, and the other men positively groaned in response.  They could both feel John’s composure slipping, Victor felt it in the pulsing beneath his tongue, and Sherlock felt it in the faltering, uneven pressure of John’s mouth.  Sherlock sat up again, and pulled John back by his hair once more. Below, Victor continued his efforts, undaunted.

“John, listen closely. Were going to play a game.” Sherlock said, with a wink and a lift of his chin. “You and your wicked little mouth are going to make me cum by the time I count to ten, do you understand?”

“Sherlock, I – “ John started to protest, only to be cut off by an even sharper tug on his hair. “Sorry, _Sir_ , I…ten seconds, is that possible?”

“I’ll be generous with my count,” he said, “or maybe I won’t, you never know. Regardless, if I haven’t cum by the time I reach one, you won’t be cumming at all tonight. Are we understood?”

Panic surged again, and fucking Victor wasn’t helping, his hot mouth pulling on him with a series of those patented long, lazy strokes that he very well knew made John fall to pieces. “Understood.” John said, and bit the inside of his cheek.

Sherlock released his hair once again, but stayed propped up on his arms so he could watch John suck. “Ten…”

John increased the pace, the wetness, the pull, and was pleased to elicit a gasp from Sherlock before he’d even gotten to the next number.

“Nine.”

John kept up the pace, using his hand to keep the pressure on, to keep Sherlock in his mouth, to stroke the orgasm out of him.

“Eight…”

John knew he was seconds away from climaxing himself, but he could just hold out, if Victor would stop fucking running his goddamned tongue over…shit. He focused his attention on Sherlock, on…Sir, on making him cum, and oh how he wanted to know what it would taste like in his throat, to have something from deep inside Sherlock Holmes suddenly deep inside him, and fuck…

“S-Seven…”

The hitch in Sherlock’s count was heaven to John, and he kept going. Victor reached his hands up and pulled John’s body in closer to him, bringing his cock deeper into his mouth, and John smiled because he realized that Victor was doing to John what John was doing to Sherlock – trying to get him there, but on a slightly delayed track from Sherlock. John whimpered at the thought.

“Victor, perfect, you should see him struggle…six.”

His cock twitched in his mouth, and John could feel him pushing towards that edge. He lowered and angled his body so he could flicker his eyes up to meet Sherlock’s and locked his gaze, letting his messy mouth go slack and then tighten, letting Sherlock see what a shameless cockslut he was…

“Fuck. Five. You filthy little shit…”

Victor’s hands were running over John’s arse, and one of his fingers, slick with Victor’s saliva and John’s own pre-cum, found its way into John’s cleft, teasing along his entrance, forcing John to arch his back, gorgeous. John’s mind swam, rutting into Victor’s mouth and his hands, while Sherlock thrust into his, and John was connecting the two, serving them both, Victor showing him off to Sherlock, like a brand new toy.

“Four…god, John…”

Victor’s finger was pressing inside John now, forcing an immediate, compelling reaction in John --  and he probably would’ve been angry if he hadn’t realized at that precise moment that Victor’s action was a pointed hint, a suggestion from a man who had probably fucked – and sucked – the cum out of Sherlock more times than either of them could count. John allowed himself a small smile, and following Victor’s lead, brushed a wet finger against Sherlock’s arsehole, garnering an immediate response.

 “Ohhh, clever, John. Fuck… Three…”

The doctor’s finger pressed into Sherlock and John nearly came, just from the expression on Sherlock’s face as he was penetrated, that lush mouth in a soundless gasp.

“Cum for me Sir, please,” John rasped, on the upstroke, and then, displaying professional expediency, the doctor curled his finger just…so…

Sherlock’s count wouldn’t make it past three.

He came like a shot, with what seemed like an endless shudder and a hoarse cry that echoed off the walls. John choked and swallowed, struggling to make good on his promise to drink every drop, desperate to cum himself, emitting a slow, steady moan from his throat.

“You brilliant man…” murmured Sherlock, languidly, and allowed himself to be licked clean. Warmth spread through John’s body, the praise gratifying but mitigated by his own desperate need.

Victor felt John rapidly reaching a point of no return, so he abruptly stopped sucking, stopped toying with his ass, and moved from below him to behind him. John simultaneously felt betrayed and relieved when Victor stopped, wanting to feel his mouth and his hands but at the same time, he was so afraid of finishing without permission. Victor wrapped an arm around John’s chest, so that they were both sitting up on their knees, both facing Sherlock’s outstretched body.

“Good boy, John,” said Victor, into John’s ear, the words once again working their magic, and John whimpered again, his engorged member leaking onto the floor.  “I’ve wanted to do this since the taxi, John.” Victor’s fingers returned to John’s arse, spreading him wide, and he heard the rip of a condom wrapper behind him.

John balked. “Victor, no, please, I won’t be able to hold off.”

“You will. I know you can do this.”

“What if I can’t?”

Sherlock sat up. “Then I’ll make Victor’s little hairbrush spanking look like the infant school punishment that it was.“

“You know about that?”

“Don’t gape, John, you know my methods, it was obvious.”

John wondered how much he knew, if he knew about the scarf, about the impersonation, his reaction…

“Hey,” Victor ran a hand along John’s spine, sending shivers. “Do you want to safeword out, John? It’s okay if you do.”

“N-no. Sir.”

“Then the decision is simple: either serve Victor and keep yourself from cumming or risk the consequences,” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, eyeing the slight curve of John’s cock with interest.

John bit his lip, blushing under Sherlock’s obvious leer, suddenly overly conscious of his heavy erection, of the flush of in his cheeks which had flared to his chest. Sherlock was right. It was a simple case of cause and effect, and if he wasn’t tagging out – which he bloody well wasn’t – he had to be all in, consequences be damned.  “Yessir.” he whispered -- to Sherlock, to Victor -- more turned on than he’d ever been in his life. “Understood. I’ll do my best.”

And so, Victor spread him wide and pressed his erection deep inside, and Sherlock watched as John’s face lit up with desire, with denial, with fear and bare want, and the detective was certain that never seen the man look so beautiful…

The older man grabbed John’s hips, pulling him back and down onto his cock, onto his lap, and Sherlock moved forward, crossing the distance between them.

“Oh, fuck, John, just like that, clench…” gritted Victor, and John positively mewled. 

Sherlock edged closer, and ran a hand under John’s chin, pulling that mouth up for a kiss. “Hold out, John, I know you can do this for me, for us. Make Victor cum just like you made me. Earn it, John, I know you can.” Sherlock pressed his body against John’s, licking kisses into his mouth and down his neck. John responded by bucking against Victor’s cock, riding it, hips swiveling mad circles, hungry, desperate, so wanting.

There’s a point that’s crossed when you edge for any length of time, and John felt himself crest it, where the panic recedes, and the desire stretches out and John took a deep breath, refocusing his efforts, feeling Victor’s cock throbbing inside him, so close now. Taking control of the moment, knowing Victor was a breath away form losing it, John looked directly into Sherlock’s eyes and slowly pressed himself down onto Victor’s cock, grinding and feeling every luxurious inch. The man beneath him positively melted…

“Christ, Victor,” Sherlock grinned. “You didn’t tell me how positively filthy John Watson is, if you could see the look on his face…”

Victor snapped his hips, ready, so fucking ready. “Cum with me, John,” he hissed, and pulled him hard by the hips. Sherlock took the back of John’s neck and with the other hand, reached down to John’s cock, initiating the sharp, sure strokes that, he knew, would bring John home.

The simultaneous sensations of Sherlock’s musician’s fingers around him, Victor’s cock buried deep in his arse and his hot breath at John’s neck were more than enough to push him right to the edge. When Victor finally came with his familiar, low, breathy groan, and collapsed onto John’s back, Sherlock looked John squarely in the face.

“Time, John. Cum for us,” he said, and John finally, _finally_ let go, head thrown back as Sherlock’s hand continued to slip smoothly over his cock, insistent motions that John blissfully gave into, his ejaculate spilling all over Sherlock’s tight fist onto the floor below, leaving John a shivering, beautiful mess.

It wasn’t until hours later that John, Sherlock and Victor would actually make it into Sherlock’s bed to sleep, and when they did, they would land in a tangle of arms and legs, all shagged out, cum-covered, and each one of them feeling entirely too pleased with themselves to stay awake for even a moment longer.

Sherlock was the last to drift off. “Good boy, John,” he murmured, nuzzling into his flatmate and stroking his hair until he fell off to sleep. “Bloody well done.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No end notes this time – except to say that I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I have (over and over and over again, LOL)!
> 
> It’s nearly Thanksgiving where I live, and I’m feeling very grateful for each and every one of my readers, both here and abroad. Thank you for your comments, and for your follows on Tumblr. Your kind notes mean the world to me and I am completely humbled by your interest in my pervy filth!
> 
> At any rate, here’s wishing an excellent Turkey Day to my fellow Americans -- and to everyone else, take care! Stay tuned until my next update, which won’t post until December – because, seriously, I can’t be expected to write porn at my mother-in-law’s can I??
> 
> Cheers!
> 
> vex.


	17. "Psychopathic Murdering Fucks"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Threesome: the extended cut!  
> ;-p

****

 

When he woke up, he didn't know where he was, for a moment.

His body ached, and he heard a rumbling beside him. There was an arm at his waist, a second arm by his leg, and a thir—

 

_(Oh…)_

 

John Watson smiled, though no one was awake to see it. Sherlock shifted, slightly, snoring face-first into his pillow, looking precisely as had the morning John had first seen the crop marks on his body – crop marks which were only now fading to a pale, grey-green, although the cuts were healing well. Victor was currently splayed over John, his leg thrown over his hip. Unlike Sherlock, the American didn’t snore, but he did talk in his sleep. Their first night together, John had been startled awake by Victor shouting _“…pain in the ass, Desmond…”_ , and _“…close your eyes…”_ and _“…told you so…”_ and then, absurdly, _“Well, butterflies taste with their feet, so…”._ In the moment, John had been intensely curious about this “Desmond”, a tiny flare of jealousy forming (which was absurd), but he’d completely forgotten to ask Victor about him in the days (hours?) since.

 

_(Well, I’ve been busy…)_

There was no talking from Victor on this morning, and it looked like both Doms were down for the count. John sighed. As much as he’d like to stay and have a proper lie-in with them, the military had made sure that he’d be an early riser for the rest of his life. There’d be no getting back to sleep -- and quite frankly, he could do with a wash, they all could. He was also more than a little curious to survey last night’s damage for himself, and see if there was anything above the neck or below the cuffs that he’d need to sort out before work on Wednesday. With the care of a bomb disposal tech, John disentangled himself from Victor and stepped over Sherlock, exiting the bed without waking either of them.  He went into the bathroom and closed the door.

 

His first instinct was to hit the shower, but the dull ache in his thighs and shoulders cried out for a restful soak. The tub in their shared bathroom went largely unused, most of the time, often serving as a catch-all for storing Sherlock’s larger lab equipment. But this morning it was empty, and appeared to be relatively clean. He bent to put the plug in, his body stiff, his skin feeling sensitive. He twisted the knob and let the tub fill, the drone of the water pleasing to his ears and the steam filling the room, warming his skin. John moved to the sink while the water ran, intending to brush his teeth, but he faltered when he looked in the mirror and was confronted by his reflection. What he saw in that mirror was a living, breathing catalogue of What Happened Last Night, and it took his breath away…

 

****

 

_In the moments that followed John’s first orgasm in Sherlock’s bedroom, John had almost immediately started to surface. Doubts as to what they were doing – I mean, really, what **had** just happened? – along with his general lack of hands-on experience –not to mention their excess of it – made him immediately sober, made him worry that he’d disappointed them, somehow and that because of that, they might make a short night of it. _

_Sherlock, who’d been watching him, let out a dramatic sigh. “Victor?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“Have you recovered?”_

_“Enough to stand, yeah.”_

_“Hold him for me. Do it now.”_

_John looked up and Victor charged him all at once, roughly lifting him to his feet. The larger man easily pinned John’s arms behind his back, and John struggled, instinct taking over._

_Sherlock walked over with a mean little smirk and slapped John once in the face, hard._

_“Stop thinking. ” Sherlock mocked. “What? You think this is over? One orgasm and everyone’s done?_

_“I-I didn’t say anything.”_

_“You didn’t have to, John, I could see it in your eyes.” The other hand came down, making his right cheek match his left, both cheeks blooming with Sherlock’s wide, red handprint. “You’re worried that we took it easy on you, that we’d found you in some way wanting, and that we might be done here. But we did not and are not, John, I assure you. In fact, we’re just getting warmed up.”_

_John squirmed against Victor, partially from instinct, again, but partially because it felt good to struggle, felt good to feel so helpless, felt good because the night was not over and because Sherlock had marked him, even if it was just for the moment. His cheeks burned with the shame of that admission just as much as they burned from the impact of Sherlock’s hand…_

_“Hold him. I’ll be back.” Sherlock said to Victor._

_“Gladly,” Victor said, as Sherlock disappeared into the depths of his walk-in closet, and Victor licked a lingering stripe along John’s neck, up to his ear, making him shiver. “I’d never take it easy on you, John. You’re too much fun to fuck with. And as for Sherlock, well, he dreams of wrecking men like you.”_

_“Men like me?” John ventured to ask, heart pounding._

_Victor let go of his arms and moved to face him. “Brave. Upstanding. Capable.” He said, and focused on pulling at John’s left nipple, giving it little twists._

_“That’s not me. I…” he winced, as Victor gave him an exceedingly sharp pinch. “God, see? I flinch.”_

_“Not when it matters, John.” Victor flicked the pink tip of John’s nipple with his fingernail. “Never doubt yourself, soldier. Never doubt the, hmm, impact you have.” Victor reached down and gave it a little bite. John shivered, and felt a surge through his whole body, a surge that would continue when Sherlock emerged from the walk-in, fully clothed in a black cashmere, long-sleeved Henley t-shirt and a pair of loose black trousers._

_It wasn’t just the fact that Sherlock was dressed that made John uncomfortable, naked as he was. It was also the fact that suddenly, it was all John could do to keep from reaching out and clutching at the mostly unbuttoned vee of that Henley, to feel Sherlock’s warm skin beneath the soft knit and to pull him close. It was a tactile compulsion, and it was only the grip of Victor’s teeth around his nipple that prevented him from moving forward and giving in to it._

_Of course, Sherlock caught him looking. “Eyes down, John,” he said, sternly, but added “Interesting, what turns you on, slut.” Out of the corner of his eye, John watched Sherlock place a small leather duffel on the bed and open the zip. “Let’s see if you appreciate my taste in toys as much as you appreciate my taste in clothing.”_

_What Sherlock pulled out of the bag were his favorite restraints – leather cuffs with a soft lining on the inside, and on the outside, shiny silver buckles attached to discreet silver chains, the exact restraints that Sherlock had imagined putting on John just the night before. As for John, he’d seen a pair like them online once and had wondered who on earth could afford to play with toys like that. Now he knew…_

_He must have made a favorable noise, because Sherlock smiled. “Thought you might approve,” he said, and nimbly leapt to the top of his bed, attaching a thin chain to an eyehook in the ceiling that John had never noticed before – not that he’d ever spent much time in Sherlock’s room. But it did make him wonder what other telltale clues he might’ve missed during his time in 221B…_

_With the chain hooked, Sherlock jumped down, and tossed Victor a pair of jeans, a pair he’d left behind over the weekend. Victor pulled away from John long enough to slide them on over his bare skin, and the thought of Victor absolutely commando underneath that denim was somehow more erotic to John than his previous state of complete nudity had been. John was now doubly aware of being the only naked man in the room, but just as he moved his arms to cover himself, both of his hands were restrained._

_Victor and Sherlock each took an arm, clasping a cuff around each of John’s wrists and hooking them to one another, behind his back. They then clipped the whole thing to the chain that was attached to the hook in the ceiling . John had never been restrained in cuffs like these – Dev had preferred complicated ropes restraints, and the one time his uni girlfriend had used cuffs, they’d been a pair of flimsy, maribou-adorned novelty things that had broken apart before he’d even begun to struggle._

_But these, now, **these** were proper cuffs, the leather thick and stiff around his wrists, heavy, and when he moved, the chains made noise. The sound got to him, sending shivers, and he squirmed against them, testing the set-up._

_Victor and Sherlock watched him struggle with idle amusement. Victor’s hand absently drifted to Sherlock’s waist, and Sherlock hummed with energy, hand to chin, little finger flickering in thought. He gazed at John, making sure to catch his eye before spontaneously reaching for Victor and kissing him, delivering a passionate kiss, not even an arm’s length in front of John’s face. John’s mouth dropped open, watching them, watching their tongues, their mouths biting, their hips turning in to one another, their hands free to touch, to tease. Yin and yang, two sides of the same coin, light and dark and god, so impossibly beautiful, and John felt that dull ache of want stirring inside once more._

_Just when John didn’t think he could take it any more, the men parted, and Victor gave a low laugh. “I will never stop missing that.” He smiled, and then jerked his head in John’s direction. “Got anything specific in mind for this one, Rabbit?”_

_“Oh, I’ve got a lot of things in my mind, Vic.” Sherlock watched John’s eyes dart from Victor’s mouth to his own, and saw the want there. “You’re so easy, John, aren’t you? One kiss was all it took to get you into my bedroom, and just one kiss between Victor and I and you’re, hmm, wide awake all over again, aren’t you?”_

_“Can you blame me?” asked John, perhaps a little more sarcastically than he should have._

_Sherlock stepped forward quickly and gave John’s cock a hard slap. “Watch that tongue and answer my question. Are you that easy, John?”_

_John exhaled, loudly, his knees going out from under him for a moment and he was thankful for the chains. “Yes, Sir. I am…that easy.”_

_“At least you admit it.” Sherlock retreated, satisfied with his answer, and began a slow walk around him, eyeing the tensed muscles in his arms, his shoulders and his back. “Your shoulder – you’re to tell us immediately if it begins to bother you and we will readjust. Understand that we will not stop the scene unless we have to, we will simply change up your position. We’ll not have your safety compromised by your desire, whore, are we understood?”_

_“Yes, Sir. Completely.” John said quietly, feeling a bit like one of Sherlock’s specimens, flailing under his microscope._

_“Good.” Sherlock continued to circle. “Now, you were a soldier. You had SERE training, I’d assume?”_

_John wrinkled his brow, confused. “Yes, at basic level, it’s core training.”_

_“Ever get to use it?”_

_“Are you asking if I was ever captured?”_

_Victor laughed knowingly. “What he’s asking, John, is if you’ve ever been interrogated.”_

****

 

John eased into the hot water with a low whistle, the heat against his injured flesh painful at first, but then soothing as his skin adjusted, and the warmth surrounded him.

 

He’d been surprised when Victor had said the word, but he shouldn’t have been. Victor had, after all, dropped multiple hints about Sherlock’s particular kink for scenes of that nature. At the time, John had written it off as a punchline to some private joke, but in their scene, Sherlock’s intention seemed clear, and the mention of the word had set off bells in John’s brain -- worrisome, triggery PTSD bells...

 

He needn’t have worried…

****

_Victor smirked. “You’re so predictable.”_

_“Consistent, I believe, is the word you’re looking for, Victor,” Sherlock snapped back. “But in this case, you’re somewhat incorrect. Not an interrogation per se – not advised with this one’s history. Instead, let’s call it an…investigation.”_

_John felt a prickle of relief in his belly. He’d not have to worry about PTSD tonight. But he was still smart enough to be wary of Sherlock’s replacement game._

_Victor raised an eyebrow. “Same rules, then? Same roles?”_

_Sherlock nodded. “First things first, though, John,” Sherlock turned to his flatmate, arms beautifully flexing under the stress of restraint. “Limits, please?”_

_John cleared his throat. Speech came slowly, as it always did for him mid-scene.. “Um, the usual, I guess. I don’t play with underage, no umm, animals, not that you were planning either of those things. No scat. No scarring, limited blood. I do have to work day after tomorrow, so if we can play with that in mind as far as marks, that would be helpful.”_

_“Understood.” Sherlock pulled a chair over from the wall and placed it directly in front of John, just out of reach. He sat down, crossing his legs precisely and leaning back -- and in that one move, he looked regal, imperious, and infinitely dangerous. John’s stomach flipped. Victor gave a tight little grin before lighting a cigarette and passing it to Sherlock._

_Sherlock took a drag. “So, I’m curious, John, and I’m hoping you’ll…enlighten me.”_

_“I-I’ll try, Sir.”_

_“Excellent, I like that attitude.” Sherlock smiled a predatory smile. “Sunday night. You came home after our unfortunate…miscommunication in the club and met up with Victor.”_

_“Sherlock…” Victor warned, pulling a chair of his own beside Sherlock’s and straddling it.._

_“Patience, Victor.” Sherlock turned back to John. “Now, knowing Victor as I do, I’m sure that what followed was a lengthy round of exhaustive, perhaps even acrobatic, sex.”_

_“Jesus, Sherlock…” groaned Victor. He lit his own cigarette and reach for the ashtray, placing it on the floor._

_“John?”_

_“Yes, Sir, we had sex.” John said – and with a bit of impatience, it must be noted._

_“But the last act that night, the scene before you both finally gave in to sleep until morning,” Sherlock said, with a great degree of amusement, his eyes bright. “That was the best part, wasn’t it, John?”_

_An uneasiness washed over John. Motherfucker. He cut his eyes to Victor._

_Victor held up his hands. “I never said a word.”_

_“It’s true,” said Sherlock. “If he had, there wouldn’t be much point to this game, now would there? I want to know about that last scene. I’ve been able to deduce some aspects of it – for instance, I suspect that’s where the hairbrush spanking came into play, but I haven’t been able to sort out much else. Do you think you can help me, John?_

_”Why, um, exactly, do you want to know, Sir?” John said, firmly, lightly challenging._

_“I’m the one who asks the questions, John,” Sherlock said sharply from his perch on the chair. “But I will answer this one, because I’m…feeling nice.” He spun the last word into a hiss, and it crawled up John’s back, sending shivers. Sherlock watched the tremble work it’s way up and smiled. “When I came home that afternoon, John, you were in running clothes on the couch, watching football. You,” he said, turning to Victor, “ were in the shower. You’d gone running, even taken John with you. You only go running after good nights, and you must have enjoyed John’s company because you rarely run with a partner.”_

_Victor shook his head in amazement as Sherlock revealed a pattern in himself that even he wasn’t aware of._

_“And then there was the whole matter of the shopping.” Sherlock smirked, addressing John. “That afternoon, you took Victor’s advice on fashion, of all things. Now, you’ve seen the way he dresses. Either your judgment was impaired, all blissed out on oxytocin, or something happened the night before to make you trust this man, at least enough to trust him with a decision he was clearly not qualified to make.”_

_“Hey, that was a nice shirt!” Victor protested._

_“It **was** a nice shirt.” Sherlock grinned. “More proof. Victor, you actually made an effort to give good advice. So, clearly, something happened over the course of that night to make you both bond, and I suspect it was the events of that last scene that sealed it.”_

_Sherlock leaned forward. “I very much want to know what happened, John.”_

****

 

John closed his eyes, thinking of the look on Sherlock’s face, that one moment in time. He placed a wet flannel over his eyes. Last night had drained him of all energy, it had been too many late nights, all in a row.

 

Not that he would have changed a thing about the last few days.

 

John had spent a lifetime analyzing his sexuality and his sexual interests. His twenties were basically spent doing little else (well, that and going to medical school and dodging IEDs, but that was neither here nor there). What he’d learned from all this navel gazing was that while, yes, it still embarrassed him, and he worried that his submissive nature did somehow make him less of a man, the raw truth was, that he _liked_ being coerced, _liked_ being manipulated into doing things that he honestly, deep down inside, really _wanted_ to do in the first place. In his case, the power exchange wasn’t about theatrics, necessarily, it was just something that allowed him to enjoy things he wouldn’t otherwise allow himself to enjoy.  Discipline, restraints, name-calling -- all things that he adored, and all things that he’d never let himself enjoy without being forced to.

 

But Sherlock’s demand for information about that last scene with Victor?

 _That_ was definitely _not_ something that John, publicly or secretly, wanted to do, under any circumstances.

 _That_ had been something completely different.

 

And _that_ demand had sent him spinning…

 

****

_Sherlock continued, delivering a jerk of his head in Victor’s direction. “As the only other party who knows what happened that night, Victor will serve as both my right hand and as my lie detector, so deception would be ill-advised.” He said, smugly. “Now, John, I want you to tell me about that scene.”_

_John paused to catch his breath, brain swarming with the fact that Sherlock, in that remarkable way of his, had somehow managed to set his sights on the one single event that John would rather die than share. So, he did the only thing he could do in the situation: he dug in his heels._

_“No, Sir,” John said. “Respectfully, I’d rather not.”_

_Sherlock clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and unfolded himself, standing up slowly. “Well, that’s disappointing John…don’t you think, Victor?” Sherlock walked behind Victor, placed his hands on Victor’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze before leaning in to him. “’Respectfully, he’d rather not’. Well. At least he’s respectful in his defiance.”_

_Victor raised an eyebrow. “Demands a respectful punishment, I think.”_

_“I agree.” Sherlock stood straight, and walked around John, his graceful fingers trailing along John’s body as he passed. John’s eyes followed him, watched him reach into that leather duffel, still on the bed. What he took out of the bag was immediately familiar, something that had played a starring role in many of John’s Sherlock fantasies, and it made his breath catch and his mind reel._

_It was the crop._

_The bloody, fucking crop…_

_“Respectfully, John,”, said Sherlock, as he lazily ran the leather tip of the crop against John’s face and neck, tickling it. “I appreciate your discretion, I’m sure Victor does as well.” He traced the line if taut muscles along John’s arms, down his ribs, to his hips, circling his cock but never touching it. “But, my beautiful boy, you need to fucking tell me what I want.”_

_The blow was timed to coincide with Sherlock’s profanity, the stroke falling to the front of John’s right thigh. It felt hot and small, a narrow sliver of hurt that blossomed and radiated out, pulling a surprised cry from John’s throat. Sherlock’s stroke, John predicted, would leave a perfect welt, the skin unbroken beneath. He’s better at it than Victor, John thought, remembering all too well the cuts along Sherlock’s arse. Of course, Sherlock had had a great deal of practice with that particular implement, John knew, on both the quick and the dead…_

_“Oh, that hurt, I know,” Sherlock purred in his ear. “That first flush of pain is delicious, though, isn’t it? Goes straight to your cock, and you feel like you can take a dozen. But don’t believe it. Six, I think, is all it will take for you to give me some sliver of a clue, and you know me, even a small bit of information will do. Sometimes, that’s all I need.”_

_And then Victor’s hands were on John’s hips, steadying him so that Sherlock’s strokes wouldn’t send him swinging on the chain, and he was talking. “Don’t be a hero, John. Tell him what he wants. Personally, I’d tell him in a heartbeat, but it’s your call, Doc.” He pulled on John’s hips, the pressure of his thumbs pressing into his skin, his words dark and hot in John’s ear. “He is a sociopath, high function notwithstanding. I’m a criminal. Don’t give either of us a reason to hurt you…”_

_Victor’s words sent a small thread of fear thrumming through John, the feeling sick and thick in his brain. It was ridiculous, it was make-believe. He knew these men – admittedly, Victor not as well as Sherlock – they were good men. But the locked door, the immediate restraint, those whispered words, fuck. If something were to happen, he could almost visualize the newspaper article, how he’d be characterized, the idiot who’d walked into a snake pit…_

_“I’m waiting, John.” Sherlock said, blowing a stream of blue smoke from his lips. “Give me a clue.”_

_In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, and the papers be damned. John lifted his chin to look Sherlock in the eye, boldly. “If you want information, you can very well come and get it, Sherlock.” And then, adding further insult, John had the audacity to smile at the man with the crop. “I mean, **Sir** …”_

_“Oh, John,” said Sherlock, in faux disappointment, flexing the crop in his hands. “There’s a difference between being spirited, and being a complete idiot. Only fair to warn you: this is going to hurt.”_

_Five strokes followed, two more to his right thigh and then another three to match on his left. The welts rose quickly, and the strokes had felt hot against his skin, as if they were melting into his flesh, rather than abrading it. Victor had John’s head pulled back, and was biting into his shoulder, his neck, and it was so, so much, the pain on his thighs and the strain in his arms, the feel of Victor’s mouth on his bare skin and Sherlock’s fresh taunts in his ears._

_It was **so** much, but it was not **too** much for the soldier, and after the sixth stroke, John was breathless and hurting, but not yet defeated. He even managed a weak smile. “That all you’ve got, Sir?”_

_Sherlock’s composure was not exactly rattled – it took far more for Sherlock Holmes to get rattled. But John’s will had surprised him. He straightened, smoothed his shirt, and ran a hand through his curls, which had become disheveled in his efforts with the crop. “Far from it, John. I already told you. We’re just getting started.” He looked over John’s shoulder to his old friend. “What do you say, Victor? Wanna play with him while he’s still got some spirit left?”_

_“Don’t mind if I do.” Victor said, and Sherlock tossed the crop to him. He caught it, and slipped it under his arm before disappearing into the bathroom. “Need something, won’t take a moment.”_

_John watched him bound out of the room, and he began to panic a bit at the thought of Victor, who had cut Sherlock, wielding the crop. Sherlock stepped forward, interrupting his train of thought, and grabbed him by the hips. “You’re proving to be a bit of a handful, aren’t you, John”_

_John looked away, the proximity making him heady. “I don’t know that I’d say that…”_

_“Oh, I definitely would. More trouble than I could’ve imagined.” He pulled him in tighter, causing the material of his trousers to rub against the welts on John’s thighs in a most unnerving way. John exhaled slowly, and forced himself to look up into those fucking eyes. He probably wasn’t supposed to, was probably supposed to keep his eyes averted, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to see Sherlock’s face, to attempt to read him, and he wished he had Sherlock’s gift for observation because the man’s expression was utterly inscrutable._

_Victor returned holding a small cup of water, the crop still under his arm. Sherlock pressed John tighter to him. However inscrutable his facial expression, there was no denying the stiffening cock beneath those trousers, the elevated respiration, both found in John, as well. Their difference in height meant that John’s face had naturally fallen into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, and if the scent of Sherlock on a forgotten scarf had sent him well on the way to orgasm last time, smelling the real thing, direct from the source, made John buckle and reel._

_Victor’s hand began to touch him immediately on the heels of this reaction, and so both Doms just naturally assumed that John was responding to the water Victor was now liberally applying the skin of John’s arse and thighs. Victor’s wide hands were stroking John in places he very much doubted the crop would reach, but John suddenly felt open and obedient, drugged on the lethal combination of the scent of Sherlock and the feel of Victor’s hands.._

_“Know what I’m doing?” Victor asked, good-naturedly._

_“He’s got a brain, Victor, “ Sherlock groused. “He knows what it’s like to be punished with a wet bottom.”_

_“It’s going to hurt more. Make the, um,” John swallowed. “crop…adhere to the skin. More complete contact.”_

_“Precisely right. And you can’t wait, can you?” Sherlock whispered, and delivered a wicked bite to John’s earlobe._

_Victor ran the handle of the crop along John’s arsehole and laughed when it made him shiver. “You’re still gaping, Doc. Bet you’d rather have this, then, instead of the punishment…” He applied some pressure, the handle pressing lightly inside. John groaned into Sherlock’s neck, and it was all he could do not to lick and bite…_

_“Please…” he choked, and felt Sherlock’s hands reaching around him, pulling his cheeks apart, oh, fuck…_

_In a heartbeat, the crop left his arse and came down with no warning on his thighs, catching both at one stroke. The sensation was intense, amplified by the water, by the differences in arm strength between Sherlock and Victor, by the position John was in, hole held and exposed, his body pinioned against Sherlock._

_“So sorry, Doc,” Victor said, with a falsely pitying look on his face. “But you really deserve the punishment. Not that I won’t give you a little tease now and then.” he said, sliding the handle roughly into John’s arse, prompting a sharp cry, only to pull it out and deliver a second stroke to his thighs._

_It was mean, and not a little vicious, this back and forth, and so it went, until Victor had gotten his six licks in, leaving John’s body just as limp as his cock was hard. There were six horizontal stripes now painting the backs of his legs, to match the six individual marks on his front._

_Sherlock released his hold on his arse and pulled John’s head back firmly, by the hair. “Are you going to tell me what I want to know, John?”_

_John shook his head, almost imperceptibly, eyes closed. “No, Sir…”_

_“Foolish of you.” Sherlock said simply, and released him, helping him stand on his own two feet. Victor had moved to the bed, and was wiping down the crop, removing the residual water on it before it could damage the soft leather.\\._

_Meanwhile, Sherlock inspected John’s arms, the tone shifting. “How are your fingers?”_

_“They’re okay.”_

_“Any numbness?”_

_“No, they’re fine,” murmured John. “Circulation’s fine.”_

_“And the shoulder?” Sherlock asked, cocking his head to examine John’s beautiful, twisted scar._

_“All good.” John answered, stoically. In truth, his shoulder had begun to tighten, but not enough to make him stop. It would take a lot more than that to get him to stop, he knew._

_So did Sherlock._

_“Liar. Your brow began to wrinkle thirty seconds ago, after the last lash.” He checked his watch. “We’ll keep you vertical for the next round, but we’ll change you up for the round after that.”_

_John looked at him with a slight sting of concern. “Shit. How many rounds are you planning?”_

_“As many as it takes to get the information I want, you insolent little bitch.”_

_John felt another tremor at Sherlock’s name-calling, marveling at the way he could push his buttons, the way that careless shrug of the Sherlock’s shoulder could reduce him to such a simpering, whimpering mess._

****

 

John arched his back, just thinking of it, the water splashing lightly as his hand found his cock, gripped it, pressed it hard. The way Sherlock had shifted, from crop-wielding bastard to friendly medic to name-calling bastard without a break had been breathtaking, and John couldn’t resist stroking to the memory.

 

His free hand pressed against the welts on his thighs, absolute proof that it happened, that what happened last night wasn’t some elaborate fantasy, but a real thing that happened to John Watson.

 

Used to be, nothing ever happened to him.

Now things were happening so quickly, he could barely get in a good night’s sleep.

He let out a quiet groan, at the very thought of what came next…

 

****

_“I’ll give you a bit of a hint, for free, Sherlock.” Victor said, sidling up to the two of them in the middle of the floor. In his hands, he held out the chopsticks. “We never got around to these on Sunday…”_

_“Now who’s consistent?” Sherlock mused, turning them over in his hands. “Curious, though -- I thought for certain they were a part of that last scene.”_

_“Nope. John saw them, though, didn’t you?” Victor’s hand went to the small of John’s back, and the man’s eyes cut away, shyly. “He asked about them, too.”_

_“Then it’s high time he feels them for himself, don’t you think?” Sherlock asked, passing them back to his friend._

_“Right you are, Rabbit!” he said, and began wrapping one of the rubber bands around one end of the pair of chopsticks, looking up to find John watching him work. Victor paused, and ruffled a hand through John’s hair. “God, you’re beautiful, Doc,” he said, giving him a chaste kiss and a look that was so loving, so gentle, and in such horrible contrast with the menacing words that would follow, that John was both instantly aroused, and instantly at odds with his arousal.  “I can’t wait to make you cry, John,” Victor said, almost wistfully, “And actual tears this time, not just tearing up.”_

_John quivered, the coil of fear churning and then he was falling into a reverie at the very thought of what challenges might stand between now and that point in time when Victor would finally have his tears._

_Sherlock approached him then, running his tongue around John’s right nipple and biting it, lightly, before Victor proceeded to wedge it between the two wooden chopsticks. Sherlock did the same with John’s left, and then backed up to watch the gorgeous moment when Victor would secure the last band and tighten both ends to the proper painful tension. Sherlock’s mouth gaped at the same time John’s did, at the exact moment when John realized that his every movement, no matter how small, would cause those two fixed points to ache and twist, a constant reminder to stay docile, calm and accepting._

_John did what he could to keep his breathing shallow, and did his best to avoid any sudden movement, finding that calm in the middle of the pain. Just as John found that placid place, Victor turned mischievous: he bit his lip and looked heavenward, the very portrait of innocence, before reaching down and giving the sticks a single short, sharp tug._

_Sounds shot out of John’s mouth -- not words, but rather guttural exclamations, and he doubled over, body curving inward, to protect his chest, making it go as concave as he could, shielding it from further abuse._

_Victor beamed. “That’s what I’m talking about, Doc. And that was just a little tug. Now, just imagine if I were to give ‘em a good, long pull…”_

_John groaned, a pleading noise, and continued his protective posture._

_Sherlock sighed. “I spend thousands of dollars on quality toys, Victor, and you get twice the reaction from stuff you get for free...”_

_“Chalk it up to American ingenuity, my fine friend.” Victor said. “When you’re not raised with a silver spoon, Rabbit, you have to get creative.”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Privilege does not preclude creativity, Victor.”_

_“Necessity is the mother of invention, you ponce.” He fired back. “If you can afford the £300 hand-tooled leather paddle to begin with, you never realize that a ping pong paddle works even better.”_

_“Unless you have more than half a brain, you guttersnipe,” Sherlock said, ever the smartarse, lifting a regulation table tennis paddle from out of the bag._

_“Fine, point taken,” Victor smirked, and gave the sticks a little flick of his fingers, studying John’s expression, watching him cringe. “I think a few well-timed pulls here might get you something, Bunny. Have a go?”_

_Sherlock didn’t need to be asked twice. He moved to his side, and lifted John’s chin with a finger. “Give me what I want, John, a small clue, or I swear to fuck I will pull until you are bloody.”_

_“Sher—Sir, I mean,” The first syllable of Sherlock’s name was out before John could correct it, and this time Sherlock was not about to overlook it._

_“How many times do I have to tell you, John? I. Am. Sir!” Sherlock pulled on the sticks, and John’s chest and shoulders went with it, until the chains wouldn’t allow him to follow further. He screamed, and Sherlock finished the pull by releasing it with an upstroke that jerked the sticks in the opposite direction._

_The upstroke elicited a smaller second reaction, and John mewled._

_“Now, what’s my name?” Sherlock intoned, and the way he said it seemed so very familiar to John’s ear._

_“Sir,” came John’s distressed cry._

_Victor ran a finger along the sticks, light pressure, little vibrations as Sherlock talked further._

_“Good. Don’t make me do that again, John.” Sherlock warned. “Give me a clue. NOW!”_

_John felt Victor’s finger rest heavier on the sticks._

_“Okay, okay,” John sputtered. “I will tell you something, just please, don--don’t do…that again, please?”_

_Sherlock arched a brow in Victor’s direction, and Victor lifted his finger. “Done. Now, tell me.”_

_John took a deep breath. “Y-you were right. About the spanking. The last scene involved a hairbrush spanking. Th-the brush wasn’t mine, so maybe yours? I d-don’t know…”_

_“You know very well that it was mine. We share a bathroom, after all. Mason Pearson, boar bristles, bitch of a bite, John, good on you for bearing up under it.” Sherlock praised. “I knew it had played some part in your playtime when I found it in a different place from where I’d left it - Victor, you really are a terrible thief.”_

_“Maybe I wanted you to know, ever think of that?” Victor challenged. “How’d you know the spanking came at the end of the night?”_

_“Easy. When I saw John on the couch, he squirmed in a way that made it abundantly clear that his bum was still smarting in a very specific way. I knew the hairbrush had been taken, and knowing your fondness for middle-of-the-night scenes, I was pretty sure that the hairbrush had to have been a part of that last scene for it to still be hurting that much the next morning.”_

_John was astonished that Sherlock was able to read so much into that small shift on the couch._

_“It was also the look on your face as you did it, John.” Sherlock said, smugly, reading his mind once again. “That and the twitch of your cock. Utterly wanton. Was all I could do not to flip you over and take you, right then and there.” Sherlock’s words stunned John prompting him to relive the memory of their encounter on the couch, but now with the remarkable knowledge of what Sherlock – his aloof, angry, and presumed asexual Sherlock – had actually been thinking of in that precise moment._

_Sherlock reached down and stroked John’s sturdy erection, enjoying the reaction his words had inspired. “Now, as much as I appreciate you giving me this clue, I’m afraid I need more information, John. After all, all you’ve really done is confirm something I already knew.”_

_“Yes, Sir.”_

_“I’m growing impatient,” Sherlock said, removing his hand from John’s member, and tugging on the chain above. “Let’s change up the restraints, Victor. You were right – the little slut wasn’t going to tell us he was hurting.”_

_They unclipped him from the chain, and unclipped his wrists from one another, but Sherlock and Victor decided to leave the leather cuffs buckled around John’s wrists, just in case they wanted to restrain him again later on. The chopsticks remained in place._

_“Your turn, Sherlock. How do you want him?” Victor asked, slapping John on the ass, watching the way it reddened, the way the flesh moved, and listening to the way he whimpered._

_“Hang on,” Sherlock said as he removed a small lead from the bag and threw it to Victor.  “Clip his restraints to the lead, I’ll be back in a sec.” He picked up the leather duffel and unlocked the door with a wicked look on his face._

****

 

John’s breathing had become louder, and he turned on the tap in an attempt to drown out the sounds that were coming out of his mouth. His cock was beginning to hurt, the water and the soap making for lousy lubricant. He reached for a bottle of shaving gel on the counter, and it seemed to work somewhat more successfully, but even if it hadn’t, he wasn’t about to stop anytime soon.

 

Noise wise, he knew his saving grace was Sherlock and his ridiculous snoring. But even if he did wake them, he thought, even if they both were to walk in right at that very moment, what they would see surely wouldn’t be any more shocking than the sights and sounds of their own fun and games…

 

 

****

_“I had a thought,” mused Sherlock when he returned. He dropped the duffel on the floor near his chair and grasped the lead from Victor’s hands, pulling John forward until he was standing beside Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock sat down, leaning back, and gestured to Victor. “P_ _ushmi-pullyu?”_

_Victor all but rubbed his hands together in excitement. “Fucking hell, I’d very nearly forgotten all about that…” he said, grabbing his chair, and swiveling it around to face Sherlock’s._

_The term seemed vaguely familiar to John, something long forgotten, but he couldn’t put his finger on precisely what the word meant, or even what language it was. All he knew was that both Doms were sitting in chairs that now faced one another, and that Sherlock was telling Victor to budge up. The older man responded by sliding his chair forward until their knees – Victor and Sherlock’s – were interlaced, alternating inside one another’s. Sherlock kicked the duffel towards Victor, and then pulled John into his lap, so that he was straddling Sherlock’s hips, with his back to Victor._

_Sherlock took a moment to appreciate the view, and ran his hands across John’s strong shoulders, down the sides of his chest and, reaching behind him, along his spine, down to the perfect dimples at the base of his arse. John burned with embarrassment. How was he ever going to casually sit across the breakfast table from this man after sitting naked in his lap? How would he ever stop blushing in his presence? Sherlock’s erection was still present, the proof pushing against his thigh, and Sherlock wasn’t shy about staring at John’s weeping erection. The doctor was mortified to be examined in such an obvious, unblinking sort of way._

_“Don’t be greedy, Sherlock. Share your toys,” gibed Victor._ _With his fingertips, Sherlock pushed John gently backwards, until he was leaning against Victor’s front. He was now draped over both Victor’s and Sherlock’s legs, and Victor’s arm was wrapped around his chest. He absently played with the chopsticks, eliciting little gasps from John._

_“You’ve given me the bag,” said Victor. “Mean what I think it means?”_

_Sherlock nodded. “Of course. You’re the only one who knows the truth, outside of John. You’re the only one who can accurately assess the stakes.”_

_John turned to look at Victor, and then to Sherlock. “The stakes, Sir?”_

_“It’ll be fun, John, you’ll love it,” gushed Sherlock._

_Victor pursed his lips in thought. “Before we start, should I…?” he asked, indicating the chopsticks. “I suspect he’ll be thrashing around a bit.”_

_“As you wish,” Sherlock said, “Got a small icepack in the bag, if you need it.”_

_“Perfect.” Victor stroked John’s hair at his temples, almost paternal. “Doc, have you had much experience with nipple clamps, clothespins, anything like that?”_

_John shook his head. “I’ve read that i-it hurts more when you take them off?”_

_Victor smiled. “Exactly. I’m going to remove the chopsticks, but when I do, it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker until the blood circulates. The icepack will help.”_

_“Okay,” John said, hesitantly, and took the icepack Victor handed him._

_Sherlock stroked John’s thighs, soft and reassuring. Victor’s hands deftly went to work on the rubberbands, first releasing one side…_

_“GodDAMNit…”  recoiled John, who slapped the icepack over the flaring nipple...._

_…and then Victor released the other side…_

_“JESUS CHRIST, oh sir, oh fucking hell…” Free from the hated sticks, John sat up, swearing like a sailor, clutching his chest in his hands, one hand pressing an icepack hard to his tortured flesh._

_“Sssshhh, it’s okay,” murmured Victor, pulling him back down on top of him, massaging his chest, getting the blood back to where it was supposed to be. John could feel Victor hard beneath him as well, and he couldn’t help but muse at the immediate, direct correlation between John’s misery and Victor’s now-surging erection._

_“Nicely done, John.” Sherlock commended. “Truth be told, that’s the thing I had the hardest time with, too, when Victor was teaching me – well, that and the hair-pulling. You’ll have some lovely bruises in the morning, though…”_

_John gave him a wan smile. “T-tell me about this game.”_

_Sherlock gave his thighs another soft push, pressing lightly against the crop welts and watching John respond to the pain. “Time to cut to the chase. I have questions about that last scene and I’m tired of waiting for answers. So, I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer. It will be up to me to deduce whether you are lying or not – the deduction’s the key. After all, it wouldn’t be very sporting of me to just have Victor flat-out tell me when you’re lying, now would it?”_

_John shifted, nervous at the thought of Sherlock turning the full power of his deductive power his way. Then again, John thought, sliding his eyes down to the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers, he realized that they were both somewhat compromised at the moment, and any tells that John had might be difficult to read right now, for sure, given his current state of mind._

_“How is this going to work, then?”_

_“Victor knows the value of each scrap of information I will ask you for. For every question I ask, he’ll pull two items out of that bag, and hold them up behind your back, out of your sight – one milder, or more pleasurable item in one hand, for answers I deem to be truths, and one more severe, or more painful item in the other, for answers I deem to be falsehoods.”_

_“So, let me get this straight.” John rocked forward, enjoying a tiny grind against their legs. “This is really not about the truth, is it? I mean, you could ask me if I’d ever, I dunno, been to Wales, but even if I had been (and I have),  if I were able to lie well enough, to convince you I’d never been there, to get you to believe, then I’d receive the lesser punishment?”_

_“Correct.”_

_“So it’s about your ability to deduce the truth.”_

_Sherlock smiled. “Or, your ability to deceive me, yes.”_

_“And if I do deceive you?”_

_“You may keep what happened between you and Victor that morning to yourselves.”_

_“You invented this game, clearly.” John said, drinking in the sight of Sherlock from this close. “No one else but you could play it and win.”_

_The detective shot Victor what could only be defined as a modest look. “Well, Vic certainly helped refine it, over the years,” he said, and John was flabbergasted. Sherlock…modest?_

_“Now, shall we begin?” Sherlock’s voice had dipped into his lowest register, sounding more and more like Victor’s imitation with every word. John nodded in response. “All right then, let’s get back to last night. Victor was about to spank you with my hairbrush. Were you bound in any way, slut?”_

_Behind John’s back, Victor lifted a simple blindfold in one hand, and a spider gag in the other._

_John paused, and decided to try a truth first. “Yes, Sir. I was.”_

_Sherlock ran a finger along the side of John’s face. “Tell me.”_

_John explained about the belt around his thighs, the way Victor had manhandled him with it, moving him around to a position that pleased him._

_Sherlock’s eyes gazed at him as he told the story, alert and flickering. He sat back. “Truth. Good boy, John.”_

_Victor slipped a blindfold over John’s eyes, and he was pleased to find that it was an actual blindfold, and not a scarf._

_“Fine. Next question. A plug was liberated from my trunk that night. Did it, by any chance, play a part in that last scene?”_

_Victor lifted a moderately-sized vibrator in one hand, and a very large plug, far larger than the one they’d borrowed from Sherlock, in the other._

_John hesitated longer this time, the blindfold giving him a false sense of privacy and of freedom from Sherlock’s probing eyes._

_Sherlock cleared his throat. “The difference between punishment and reward is steeper here, whore, so I suggest you answer quickly and truthfully.”_

_“Y-yes, Sir,” John answered, with no small embarrassment, going with truth once again. “It…did play a part.”_

_John heard someone open a bottle of lube, and then he felt Sherlock’s hand wrap around his cock and ohh, jesus, he nearly lost it right then and there. “Tell me,” Sherlock said, his voice going a little shaky._

_John explained about being on the bed, on all fours, the way his legs were spread to accommodate the plug, and the way the stretch made him feel. Sherlock asked him if it had been his first time he was fitted with a plug, and John stammered in the negative._

_Sherlock considered John’s shame, the reddening of his cheeks, the way he’d begun rutting into Sherlock’s hand as he told the story. Sherlock was convinced. “Truth. Your reward…”_

_Sherlock flicked the switch on the vibrator, holding it by John’s ears. The doctor moaned, shifting his hips._

_“Knees up, slut, on my shoulders,” directed Sherlock. John did as he was told, grateful that the blindfold was sparing him from watching Sherlock penetrate him, perfunctorily, with his fingers. It wasn’t like he hadn’t fantasized about this over and over again, in some way, but seeing it for real might very well send him over the edge. Of course, just as soon as he thought it, Victor was at his ear, giving him a play-by-play…_

_“It’s a shame you can’t see this, Doc, although I know you can feel it.” His voice cooed into John’s ear. “He’s got those long, limber fingers that just, oh, turn you inside out, don’t they? Fuck, watching this is getting me off, can you feel how hard I am?”_

_John whimpered, and struggled against Sherlock’s hand. Victor’s arm came down again, on his chest, holding him in place and Sherlock laughed._

_“I know what you want, John,” he flicked the switch and then the vibrator was inside of him, pressing into him, rattling his cage, making his arse clench and stretch. “That’s a boy,” he said, moving it about until he found the right spot…_

_“Ohh, Sir. Yes. There. Please, fuck…” John was actively whinging now, and Sherlock was teasing._

_“There?” he’d ask, and then move it away. “Or is it better here?” and shift it to a different spot._

_“You’re mean, Rabbit,” said Victor, shaking his head, and Sherlock reluctantly put it back where it was supposed to be._

_“There. Better?” he asked.  John nodded, and ground against it with a loud groan._

_“You can ride it, John, that’s good…” Sherlock said, letting the vibe continue to purr. “So, you were on all fours, on your bed, bound at the thighs with Victor’s belt. You had the nicked plug deep in your arse, and Victor was spanking you with the hairbrush…fantastic image, but, I don’t know. Somehow doesn’t seem enough to forge a bond.” He raised his eyebrows at Victor._

_Victor smirked. “I already told you, I’m not saying a word.”_

_“Fine. Another question, then…” He muttered, and yanked John up to a sitting position, pushing the vibe deeper inside, causing John to cry out. ““Okay, he had you immobilized, he’d filled you, he was punishing you, what’s missing?” Sherlock stared into John’s face, his mind rolling, eventually seizing on something. “God, obvious. Sensory deprivation, of course --  he likes your mouth, so he wouldn’t gag you, and he’d definitely want you to hear the slap of the brush. Smell is a bit tricky to manipulate, so, yes, clearly. You couldn’t see.” Sherlock said, victoriously, and asked. “John: were you blindfolded in any way?”_

_John waffled. He could tolerate Sherlock knowing what Victor had done to him, but he really, truly, did not want to share the fact that it was the false presence of Sherlock that had been the thing that had made the scene work so well. And while, yes, the key factors hadn’t been the blindfold or the words Victor spoke, per se, the key factors **had** been related to those things -- Sherlock’s scent on the blindfold and Victor’s impersonation in his ear. But with Sherlock, John felt that if he gave the slightest hint to either issue, the uncanny detective was bound to figure it out. _

_It was time to lie._

_Behind John’s back, Victor lifted a knife in one hand, leaving his other hand empty. Sherlock’s brow raised quizzically at the skyrocketing stakes._

_John licked his lips, and tried to keep the tremor out of his voice._

_“No, Sir. I was not blindfolded.”_

****

 

It was the lick that had given him away, John knew that now, sitting in the tub the following morning.

 

Sherlock had known, even before John spoke, that the next words out of his mouth would be a…

 

 

****

_“Lie.” Sherlock said, with a twinkle in his eye, and John felt the bottom drop out of his stomach._

_It wasn’t the punishment. Barring something extreme, John knew he could handle it. No, it was the fact that John realized he’d made a critical error in judgment, for by lying, he’d not only given Sherlock proof that a blindfold had, in fact, been engaged, he’d also given him proof-positive that there was something about the blindfold that John didn’t want him to know._

_“Fuck,” John said, and Sherlock broke out into a smile. Oh, he was going to enjoy this one…_

_He pushed John back against Victor again, the noise of the vibrator keening louder now, and he adjusted it, pressing it a little deeper inside. “Oh, John. It’s like Christmas.” Sherlock crooned. “A little mystery, the mystery of John Watson’s blindfold. Happily, your punishment for lying should help move this investigation along tremendously. I truly wish it was something I could employ with our more difficult cases in real life.”_

_He motioned to Victor to hand him the knife, which was encased in an ice-encrusted plastic bag. John couldn’t see, but he could certainly hear, so Sherlock took pains to open the bag quietly. He removed the knife, and said “You’ll want to hold your breath at this bit, slut,” before pressing it against John’s jugular._

_John froze in place, immediately, at the first feel of blade against skin. “Sir – Sherlock, what is that?”_

_Sherlock laughed. “Just a knife, John, nothing to worry about,” he continued. “Help me solve this mystery and I’ll put my knife away, John.”_

_John squirmed, the presence of the knife making the world go away, making him focus on the one spot where knife met flesh, and oh how he hated the fact that it made him squirm, the fact that his brain translated “knife to the throat” to “nearly cum in your pants (if you were wearing any)”. John wondered if the knife point had already broken the skin, he wondered how far Sherlock might go, and John wondered if he really was a lunatic to blithely lie here allowing Sherlock Holmes to prick him with a knife. At that precise moment, John would have been the first to admit that yeah, it was more than a little fucked up._

_He didn’t really panic until Victor pulled his arms up over his head, and held them there. “Hey, I don’t like this. Sherlock?” John said. “Victor, I don’t want any of this...”_

_“Sssshhh,” Victor said, holding his arms tightly. “If you don’t want this, then I suggest you do what the man says.”_

_“And I don’t want this either, John, but you just won’t cooperate, will you?” Sherlock explained, and John felt the point of the knife, so sharp against his skin, pivot and drag a short distance down his neck. John vibrated beneath it, his brain having difficulty making sense of the sensation. He held his breath, too scared to move, scared he’d make it worse, and he waited for the pain to bloom. “You know how to make it stop, John.” Sherlock said calmly, “Safeword out or tell me what I want to know,” and at that, he quickly drew the blade down to John’s belly, encircling his navel._

_That’s when John screamed, and thrashed, trying to escape the touch of the blade, and the wetness that trailed behind, bending his body and leveraging his weight until he’d managed to roll out of their laps and onto the floor. He scrabbled at the blindfold, furiously, until it was off._

_“What the hell kind of psychopathic murdering FUCKS are you two?” John roared. “I said no scarring, I said limited blood, and you carve me up like a Chri-…what the fuck is this?” John stopped mid-rant, the moment he looked down at his chest, which was utterly and completely…free from harm.._

_He looked from his chest to Sherlock and Victor, mouth agape, realization dawning “Oh, you COMPLETE shits!”_

_Sherlock and Victor released the suppressed giggles that had been rising in their throats since the knife first came out, but quickly changed their expressions when one_ _Captain John Watson, recently of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,_ _stood up and turned to them, blazing with anger. Victor was first on his feet, and John pushed him with both hands, demanding answers. “What was it? Trick knife? I felt fucking blood!”_

_Victor shook his head. “It wasn’t blood, it was water. See?” He ran his fingers along John’s wet chest and placed them in his mouth to taste._

_“Water…?” Victor nodded, and John felt Sherlock’s hand light on his shoulder._

_“And the knife was a knife, but it was just a butter knife.” Sherlock explained. “Put it in the freezer and the cold makes the blade feel sharp.” He handed the knife to John for inspection._

_Begrudgingly, John took the knife, and ran his fingers along the edge. “And then the ice melts and as it runs along, it feels like…blood. Huh.”_

_Victor grinned, and crossed his arms in front of him, enjoying watching John’s anger dissipate into curiosity. “We’d never put you in real harm’s way, John. It’s just an illusion, tricking the senses, a way of safely putting you in the headspace of dangerous play.”_

_“It felt so real,” John said, still looking at the knife. “I was so convinced…”_

_“Welcome to the mindfuck,” Sherlock said. “Victor’s actually been giving me a crash refresher course in it this visit.” He shot a look at the immensely self-satisfied consulting chemist standing beside him. “It’s only now that I’m starting to realize why.”_

****

 

There was a fresh bar of Sherlock’s soap in the basket by the tub, and John couldn’t resist lifting it to his nose, breathing the peculiarly pleasant scent that he associated with only one other person in the world. 

 

He considered bathing with it, knowing Sherlock wouldn’t care, but he ultimately  resisted. He was not Sherlock, and the scent would not work the same way with his chemistry, nor would he want it to. That scent was Sherlock’s, alone, and on anyone else, he thought fondly, it would just be, well -- an imitation.

 

John smiled to himself, and reached for a fresh bar of his own brand, and ran a soapy washcloth gingerly over his skin…

 

****

_John quirked a brow in Sherlock’s direction and casually asked, “So, are there any other mindfucks, any other little ‘illusions’ up your sleeve?”_

_Sherlock just smiled, and said. “I’ll never tell…”_

_“And what about me?” John asked. “Do I still need to tell?”_

_The detective tilted his head and considered the question. “It was just a game, John,” he said, taking the doctor’s hand into his._

_“It’s a mystery, though. You don’t take mysteries lightly.”_

_“I don’t take any of this lightly.” Sherlock said, and turned John’s hand over in his. Impulsively, he leaned down and kissed John’s open palm, his lips lingering softly against his skin. John responded by pulling Sherlock’s face to his, giving **him** a kiss this time, and a proper one at that, without all the schoolgirl swooning and the self-doubt, without the debilitating butterflies, without the shame. It was, perhaps, his most submissive act of the night, this bold kiss, and he gave it everything he had. In this one kiss, John gave Sherlock everything he had to give, without polish or pretense. _

_When their lips finally parted, Sherlock murmured, hazily. “I can live with this mystery, John,” and removed the Henley, lifting it over his head in one practiced move._

_John pressed his head against Sherlock’s bare chest, and listened to his heart, listened to the pounding pulse that had inspired a nickname and served as the starting point of a friendship that would last a lifetime. “Rabbit…” he said._

_“Don’t you start, too,” groaned Sherlock, to John, and looked to Victor, who had been watching them, breathlessly. “You see what you’ve started, here?”_

_Victor smiled. “I do. And I’m going to let you finish it.” While they’d been talking, he’d slipped on his button-front shirt, the buttons still undone.  The vintage suit lay crumpled in his hand._

_John shook his head firmly. “No. No fucking way. You’re staying.” he said, taking the suit out of Victor’s hands._

_Sherlock was right behind him. “Agreed. Very poor form of you to bug out early, Victor. Just when things were getting interesting.”_

_“That’s precisely why I think it’s time for me to make a graceful exit…”_

_“Again, no. Fuck no.” John tossed the suit into Sherlock’s chair and threw an arm around Victor’s neck. “Because honestly, if you think I’m going to let you go home without finally getting to watch the two of you fuck, you’re bloody insane.”_

_Victor laughed, a bark of a laugh. “You want to see that, do you?”_

_John threw his other arm around Sherlock’s neck. “Yeah, I do. I think I’ve earned that. Just think about how spectacularly good I’ve been tonight, boys…”_

_“Spectacularly good?”” Sherlock mocked, counting John’s many infractions on his fingers. “You tackled me, you assaulted Victor, you defiantly refused to answer my questions and to cap off the evening, you accused us of being – what was it, Victor?”_

_“’Psychopathic murdering fucks’, I believe.” He said, with mock horror._

_“Right, how could I forget?” Sherlock agreed. “You see, Victor, you have to stay. I’m going to need all the help I can get.”_

_Victor sighed, and scrubbed his hand along the back of his head, shooting the both of them a wry smile. “Yeah, okay you perverts…”_

_And that was all it took for Sherlock and John to both descend on Victor, removing his shirt and jeans and licking pathways down his chest, their mouths meeting at his cock. They backed him into the footboard of Sherlock’s bed, and he leaned there, breathing heavily at the feel of both men’s mouths, tongues, lips, teeth and hands on him. He exhaled, shivering, realizing that he was, without a doubt, the luckiest man in London._

_John watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, fascinated by the difference in their approaches. Where John’s efforts were driven by a desire to perform and to please, Sherlock’s were nothing less than provoking, challenging, as if he were goading Victor into giving in, into cumming. Under Sherlock’s ministrations, orgasm would spell Victor’s defeat, not victory, and John was totally captivated._

_For his part, Sherlock blatantly ogled John as well, his hands wandering to the man’s cock, to the back of his neck, to the curve of his arse, all the while continuing to suck the American with the arrogant fluency of a long-time lover. His tongue tangled together with John’s around Victor’s thick erection, and they were tasting themselves while they tasted him.  Victor was very nearly undone by the irresistible combination of those glorious sensations, paired with the visual of John and Sherlock together at his feet, on their knees, sucking him and touching one another._

_“Up,” Victor said, voice strained, and he pulled John up by his arm, running his hand hard and fast along the sub’s cock, making the filthy little thing shudder in delight and grind into his hand. Sherlock rose as well, stripping off his trousers and pressing a lazy finger into Victor’s arsehole, the digit sticky with someone’s precum. Moments later, Sherlock bit deeply into the nape of the elder man’s neck, making him twist and howl._

_“That’s gonna leave a mark...think I won’t tag you back, Sherlock, just because John’s here?_

_“Right. I’d like to see you try…”_

_“Oh, you’re so on,” Victor said, and they dove for one another, pulling and pushing and bouncing off walls and furniture. John was over the moon, stroking his own cock and watching his two lovers thrash and throttle each other from one end of the room to the other. They fought dirty, they fought until Sherlock was bleeding, they fought until Victor busted his lip on the bookcase, they fought until John felt he had waited more than long enough, thank you very much._

_He stood on top of Sherlock’s bed, raised his fingers to his mouth, and released a very loud, very shrill, taxi whistle. The two men stopped what they were doing, and turned to him, expectantly. John pressed one wicked hand against himself, stroking himself and gave the pair his lewdest smile. “If one of you doesn’t fuck me into this mattress sometime soon, I’m leaving you both for someone who will!”, effectively putting an end to that night’s impromptu meeting of the Baker Street Fight Club, and sex was oh, so, back on. Sherlock responded first, bounding to the bed and pulling John’s legs out from under him. He spilled him out onto his back, onto the bed, his legs wide and heart pounding. Sherlock hooked his hands beneath John’s knees, and lifted him until his arse was level with Sherlock’s cock._

_“Do you want this?” Sherlock’s voice was throaty, still breathless from wrestling with Victor and made even more so at the thought of entering John Watson._

_“Can’t have made it clearer, could I?” asked John, his turn to be impatient._

_“No. I meant,” Sherlock said, his voice rumbling, his hands trembling beneath John, his eyes darting over John’s face, desperately looking for confirmation. “Do you want…me?”_

_And John wanted to say “Since the moment I met you.”_

_And John wanted to say “Impossible not to.”_

_And John wanted to say “Of course, you great bloody git!”_

_And John wanted to say “More than want…”_

_But what John actually said was “Yes.”_

_Sherlock shot him a sly smile, and John supposed it was meant to come across as brash, as swaggering, as cool, like his cheekbones and his popped collar -- but the man’s real emotion was showing around the edges, and that realization sent John soaring._

_Sherlock ran his thumb, experimentally, between John’s cheeks…_

_Victor passed behind Sherlock, and handed him one of the two condoms he’d fished out of the bedside table. Still holding tight to John with one hand, Sherlock opened the packet with his teeth and slid it over his erection with the other, turning his head to spit out the bit of wrapper that had stuck to his tongue. Behind him, John could see Victor was doing the same. A bottle appeared in Sherlock’s hand, the snap of the cap eliciting a moan from the good doctor. The sight of Sherlock touching his own erection, and in such close proximity, made John want to forget that the rest of the world even existed._

_And that’s when Sherlock pressed into John, his mouth parting with a soft “Oh,” a sound barely above a whisper, his breath hitching when his cock pushed past John’s defenses, past the muscle and deeper into the man. He watched John’s eyes flicker shut, observed the way his skin flushed at his chest and cataloged it all away, taking in this overwhelming rush of new data and storing it safely, in a room labeled with John’s name, a warm room with a golden glow that would never, ever go out._

_And then John was keening below him, his want once again wanton. Sherlock felt Victor’s hand at the small of his back, and the American leaned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, looking curiously at John, laid out and laid open upon the bed. Beautiful…_

_“Doc,” Victor said, prompting John to open his eyes and focus on the two men now standing before him. Victor grinned, and gave him a wink before asking “Still want to watch?”_

_John gave a vigorous nod, too far gone now for words, and a broad smile followed when Sherlock’s pace paused, when he fell forward over John, face-to-face. Sherlock supported himself with one hand against the mattress, and when Victor pushed his way into Sherlock, all three men felt that particular rush of physical connection, of desire, of – god, the lecherous feel of skin upon skin upon skin._

_They found their pace, and Sherlock, in the middle, beset upon all sides, was too far gone to even observe anymore, his mind turning off in that blissful way it had that first afternoon with Victor, when he was 19, when he stood in the middle of a stranger’s flat, and allowed himself to be touched. He knew he wouldn’t last long like this, literally caught between his past and his potential future, between Victor and John, and it felt so fucking good. He bit into his bottom lip, adjusting his angle inside John to make him whimper his loudest, to make him scream Sherlock’s name and beg him not to stop, never to stop…._

_Victor chose that precise moment to tug at Sherlock’s curls, to grip his hip and pull him hard, watching Sherlock come apart between them, watching John watching him._

_Like dominoes, all three of them would fall. Unlike dominoes, the fall would begin with the man in the middle and spread to the other two, each in quick succession, John’s cock would paint Sherlock’s stomach in a crosshatch of white lines, lines that would blur against his own when Sherlock would collapse against him, when Victor would finally climax, the noises in his throat coarse and deep and desperate._

****

 

Victor woke to the sound of water running in the bath. It was early still, the sun coming through the blinds still grey, and he wondered if it was raining. His lip throbbed, and he reached a hand up to find it had swollen a bit in the night.  Sherlock shifted beside him, mouth slack, curls in disarray, limbs hanging off the bed, with that damned red line running along his throat. Victor lifted himself up to sitting, leaning his body against the headboard, and he kicked one foot out, prodding Sherlock in the ribs.

 

“Wake up,” he said. “John’s in the bath.”

 

Sherlock responded with inarticulate snuffle noises.

 

“Bunny.” Victor said, more insistently. “Now is the time to do this.”

 

Sherlock, displaying a general refusal to engage, simply rolled over onto his stomach.

 

“Sherlock, I will march in there and tell him everything unless you wake up this minute and do what you promised.”

 

Sherlock deigned to open a single eye at that threat. “I don’t want to.”

 

“You have to.” Victor said, with a shrug.

 

Sherlock groaned like a child, but eventually gathered the sheet around him and stood. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair and shot Victor a resentful look before going into the walk-in closet.

 

“You do realize that this will prevent nothing?” He challenged, from the closet, throwing a small, empty duffle bag out onto the bed.

 

Victor stretched. His arms felt tight, the fight with Sherlock having taken more of a toll than expected. “Shut up, Rabbit…”

 

Sherlock rumbled around in the closet, and then poked his head out, two small items in his hand. “I built it once, Victor, ages ago. You think I can’t build it again?”

 

He spitefully threw the reel and the mechanism onto the bed.

 

Victor unzipped the bag and placed them inside. “Takes time to do that, though, doesn’t it? Time you can use to talk yourself out of this stupid fucking crutch.”

 

Back at the doorway, Sherlock gritted. “It’s not a crutch.”

 

“Give me a break, Sherlock. Where’s the fucking dead man?”

 

Sherlock swore, and then returned to the closet.

 

“And the rope!” Victor shouted after him.

 

Moments later, Sherlock returned. “Look, let me keep it. I promise I won’t use it again.”

 

“Hmm, where have I heard that before?” Victor shot out, sarcastically. “It’s like this: I get that last night, before we came home, was rough, for whatever reason. I’m not even giving you any shit about the coke because we all fall down now and then. But this bullshit? No. You’re way too smart for this.”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, shifting tactics, softening his face. “But it’s a bit sentimental, Victor. Ingenious design for a sixteen year old, don’t you think?”

 

“I think I’m not buying it.” Victor said. “All I’m asking is that you just let me hang onto it for a while, okay? I won’t throw it out, even. I’ll just hold on to it for you. Can you do this for me?

 

“And you won’t tell Mycroft?”

 

“Mycroft can suck my dick.” Victor reached for his cigarettes and stopped mid-sentence. “Actually, strike that. Not if he was the last fucking man on the planet.”

 

Sherlock looked down, lip turning up slightly at Victor’s comment. “And John?” he asked, lifting his eyes.

 

“I won’t tell.” Victor said firmly and zipped up the bag, stowing it next to the bed, out of sight.

 

Sherlock sat back down on the bed with a pout. He shrugged off the sheet and absentmindedly pulled on his pajama pants and a t-shirt.

 

Victor closed his eyes, and put his hands behind his head. “Last night was a good one,” he said. “Felt like old times.”

 

“Better than old times.” Sherlock said, thoughtfully. “John’s…different.”

 

“Good different?” Victor asked, curiously.

 

A trace of a smile lit upon Sherlock’s face. “Surprisingly so.”

 

From next door, they could hear the sound of water draining. Victor turned to Sherlock and lifted his brows. “Speak of the devil. That’ll be him.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, “and freshly scrubbed, too.”

 

The two Doms stayed there still for a moment, contemplating the idea of a freshly scrubbed John Watson, flushed from the bath, smelling of soap and shampoo, hair wet, skin soft, muscles relaxed…

 

“Would be a shame, really,” Victor began, and locked eyes with Sherlock.

 

“If he were to get dirty all over again?” Sherlock asked, gravely. “Yes. It would be a terrible shame.”

 

“Candles?” Victor asked.

 

“In my trunk.” Sherlock smirked, eyes suddenly bright. “I’ll go get the ice.”

 

****

 

Sherlock padded into the kitchen, grabbing a stainless steel bowl from the cabinet, humming to himself. Temperature play was a personal favorite of his, and he imagined the way John would react to the alternating sensations of hot and cold.

He rolled the bottom freezer door open, only to find the icemaker full, but frozen solid, the cubes having melted and frozen together to form one large block of ice. He sighed.

“John, you need to defrost the freezer, I think!” Sherlock shouted into the other room. He opened the junk drawer, and pulling out the icepick, he stabbed the block until it was broken up and all the ice was chipped away from the side of the icemaker itself.

Five minutes later, John would emerge into the hallway outside Sherlock’s bedroom, still wearing a towel, “Sherlock?” he called out, making his way into the kitchen, “Victor said you were getting some supplies and…” and then he stopped, abruptly. “Sherlock?”

The room was empty, the freezer door was wide open, a stainless steel bowl of ice lay melting on the floor and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> Confessional: In the last chapter, I’ll admit, mea culpa -- I was kind of holding back, keeping the threesome sweet and light and doing like they do in the movies, fading to black just when things got good. 
> 
> Maybe I didn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.  
> Maybe I was just feeling particularly lazy before the holiday. 
> 
> But regardless of the reason, I think it’s fair to say that I went easy on the kink last chapter -- and much like John in the beginning of this chapter, some of you fantastic lovelies were kind enough to smack some sense into me (in a most loving and supportive way, of course) and for that I am quite grateful! My fic is always my fic, yes, and while I will always maintain my own vision of the characters and the storyline, a little course-correction, when needed, is always appreciated! ;-) 
> 
> So, moving forward, and assuming that you all clicked the BDSM tag for a reason, I sat down to write this chapter. 
> 
> Did I intend for it to turn into this 12,000+ word PWP (well, except for that end bit there) monster? No, I did not. That happened on its own, and in truth, heh, I’m not one bit sorry…  
> ;-p
> 
> Consider it your payback for having that slow ramp-up in Chapter 16, and for having to wait so long between chapters!  
> Enjoy!
> 
> \- [Sherlock’s Henley Top](http://www.bluefly.com/wyatt-black-cashmere-henley-sweater/PRODUCT_FEED/323263601/detail.fly?partner=Gate_CSE_Google+Product+Ads_Wyatt_Sweaters&referer=ca_google_productads&PROMO=promo970009&cm_mmc=ca_google_productads-_-Wyatt-_-mens_sweaters-_-323263601&mkwid=uIj7ERIi&pcrid=25692404348&pmt=&kwd=&pmid=&mr:adType=pla&gclid=CKreg9qbg7sCFUsV7Aod5VEABg): (I blame Michael C. Hall for [sexualizing the Henley](http://www.cosplayisland.co.uk/files/costumes/678/14657/dexter3.jpg) for me. Sherlock’s black cashmere version is, admittedly, far more upscale than Dexter’s).
> 
> \- [Sherlock’s Leather Duffel](http://www.kennethcole.com/product/index.jsp?productId=3192016&om=PS-S-PLA%3AGoogle%3AShopping%3AKenneth+Cole+New+York+Roma+Leather+Satchel+Duffle+Bag&gclid=CK_277CPpLsCFSdp7AodTgwAYg). Just imagine how many toys you could fit in there!
> 
> \- “Sherlock hummed with energy, hand to chin, little finger flickering in thought…” was a shoutout to my absolute favorite gif (which I'm having problems finding right now, but I'll post ASAP when I do!)
> 
> \- SERE Training: I’m not sure how much SERE Training John cwould have had as an army doc, but from what I was able to dig up on Google, he would have had at least the basic (written) course that everyone takes. As someone who was deployed overseas, he may have had more. Anyone who knows for sure, feel free to chime in!  
> Learn more about SERE Training for all branches of the UK Armed Forced [here](http://www.raf.mod.uk/rafstmawgan/aboutus/defenceseretraining.cfm).
> 
> \- [Sherlock’s Mason Pearson hairbrush](http://www.beauty.com/mason-pearson-boar-bristle-and-nylon-hairbrush-large-size-popular/qxp56273)
> 
> \- For the uninitiated,[“Pushmi-pullyu](http://cdnimg.visualizeus.com/thumbs/1a/91/1a91f9c35344a6c05af0264f71b91da1_m.jpg) (pronounced "push-me—pull-you") is not a word in a foreign language, nor is it a Kama Sutra position -- rather it's a "gazelle-unicorn cross" with two heads, an entirely made-up animal that Sherlock and Victor are likely both familiar with because of the 1967 British musical film [“Doctor Doolittle”](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doctor_Dolittle_\(film\)), starring Rex Harrison and Anthony Newley.
> 
> \- [“Now, shall we begin?” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7fCcWxvBsyE)Y'all, I just couldn’t help myself.
> 
> Oh, and ***casefic fans***, take heart – next chapter we return to the case in earnest!
> 
> See you next time!
> 
> vex.


	18. "Will You Be My Friend?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we get back to the case, discover what happened to Sherlock and remind ourselves that, oh yeah, Lestrade actually is in this fic!

 

 

Fulvia chewed on her lip, and chipped at her nail varnish while she waited for her ex-husband to appear on the other side of the dirty plastic window. The color of her nails (a shade called “Clambake”, not that she’d ever been to one) was far too bright by the light of day, and she had already broken one of her fingernails in the tube on the way here.

She needed a drink.

It had all started this morning, with a phone call from Croft, the weaselly little bastard. Of course it was about Lloy – rather, Chad, now, again – and of course he’d been arrested. And the weasel prattled on and on about how Chad needed her to come down to the police station, to visit him, to comfort him in this time of need.

“Bollocks,” she’d said. but grabbed her coat and purse just the same, headed out the door, without even stopping for her morning nip.

And now she was here, picking at her nails and shaking in this stale room. It was partitioned off, for privacy, like, and the whole place felt light green and sickly. An officer sat in the corner, busy checking the identification for visitors as they entered. Eventually, Chad came into the room on the other side of the Perspex. His mouth was a tight line, and he reached for the phone. She did the same.

“Fulvia, my darling, thank god.”

“Thank Croft. He didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“Did he explain the situation?”

Fulvia grimaced. He had. Her mind raced: Chad’s first wife shows up dead, and the whole scheme falls to pieces. Louis Lloyd reverts back to Chad Wilson, and everything flatlines, poof, just like that.  He should never have stayed in London, that prat...

…but “Yeah,” was all she said.

“Even without the whole Melinda situation – which I am entirely innocent of, by the by – it’s still fraud for the insurance theft,” he explained. “Croft thinks I can get a lesser charge if I cop to the fraud, claim I was under duress, mention the situation with Lambeth.” He mouthed the last word through the glass.

Fulvia nodded, thoughtfully. “So what do you need me for?”

“Well, they’ll be coming for you next, won’t they?” Chad said quietly, and smiled a mean little grin. “I mean, unless I choose to leave out the part where you helped me disappear.”

Shit.

“And the part about how you and I kept in touch over the years, that will need to be hushed up.”

Bloody hell.

“Not to mention the blackmail.”

Fulvia crossed her arms. “What do you want from me, Chad?”

“Nothing that you wouldn’t want from me, sweetheart.” He smiled again, and relaxed back into the chair. “It’s simple, love: I’ll protect you, if you protect me.”

*****

 

 

Five panicked (and four unanswered) texts later, and John was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief.

 

**Come to Bart’s, John. SH**

 

And then, fifteen seconds later:

 

**Come alone. SH**

John made his apologies to Victor, who shrugged off the abrupt halt in play with enviable ease. He eyed the mess in the kitchen, and helped John clean up the floor, finishing the job by pressing him into the counter for a lingering kiss. John wondered if there was time for a quick something before he had to meet Sherlock.

His phone buzzed in his pocket:

**There isn’t. Come now. SH**

Buggering bastard, John groused inside, and broke away from the kiss with no small amount of regret. “I’ve got to go.”

Victor nodded, and kissed him sweetly on his forehead. “Fantastic time last night. Got me thinking twice about this fairy godfather stuff, and I’m thinking that maybe Sherlock can fuck right off. Maybe I want to keep you for myself.”

“Maybe I get a say in this, yeah?” John teased. “Just a small one?”

“Fine.” Victor said, rolling his eyes. “We can debate it later. Over drinks, say at seven? Sherlock will know where.”

John grinned and followed Victor out the door, down the seventeen steps and out onto the streets. John raised his hand for a cab. “Share a taxi?”

Victor shook his head no. “I’m going the other way,” he said, as the car came to a stop in front of them. He pulled John in for one last kiss before opening the cab door. “Off you go.”

John got in the cab, and watched Victor turn to walk in the opposite direction. He supposed it was the fallout of a physically and emotionally charged evening, but he felt a stab of remorse at watching Victor walk away. He turned over their last exchange in his head. It was nothing more than banter, John assured himself. Victor had been talking out of his arse -- he didn’t even _live_ in this country, for fuck’s sake! But he couldn’t help but wonder: if he _were_ faced with a choice, between Sherlock and Victor, who would he choose? It seemed like a ludicrous proposition, but it was nice to imagine. A fantasy conundrum, nothing more, and he lost himself for the moment in comparing their kisses and tensing his thigh muscles, feeling the pain radiate from both sides of his thighs, simultaneously.

Down in the basement lab, Sherlock Holmes was far from dreaming about their threesome. He was bent over a high-sided tray, peering at something through his magnifier with such intensity that he barely stopped to greet John.

“You’re late. I told you there wasn’t time.” Sherlock tapped something decisively into the computer beside him.

“We didn’t do anything,” John said defensively, before fully taking in the scene in front of him. “Um, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Where are your shoes?”

The Consulting Detective was currently barefoot. More than that, he was clad exclusively in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, looking more ready for a nap on the couch than serious science at Bart’s. The underdressed man in question stared intently into the computer screen. “At home, I presume.”

John pinched the bridge of his own nose. It was too early in the morning for this. “It’s winter, Sherlock, you do realise that? Ever heard of frostbite?”

Impatiently, Sherlock shifted his attention from the computer screen to John and sighed. “Front door to the cab, ten paces, cab to the hotel entrance, eight paces, back out to the cab, another eight and then sixteen paces into Bart’s. That’s a total of 42 steps on cold pavement. Hardly enough to induce frostbite, John, and I needed to move quickly.”

“What? Why?” The odds were shifting in John’s fantasy conundrum with every passing second. “What hotel?” Sherlock ignored him, and John threw up his arms in frustration. “You know you left the fridge door right open, ice melting all over the kitchen floor?”

“Precisely, John!” Sherlock spun around as the computer chimed. “Brilliant! You’ve cut right to the heart of it!”

It was situation normal for John Watson, confusion in the presence of the swirling vortex that is Sherlock Holmes – and any concerns he might’ve had that last night might somehow change their working relationship dissipated like so much smoke by the light of day. Their dynamics seemed to have remained exactly (and somewhat disappointingly, if he was being honest) the same, as if the events of the previous night had never even happened. John responded to this thought by intentionally pressing a hand against his visibly bruised earlobe, the one Sherlock had chosen to bite so wickedly, and the doctor winced with satisfaction.

 _(Fucking right, it happened…)_  

John smiled to himself and chose to dismiss Sherlock’s praise – not that he even knew what he was being praised _for_. Instead, he opted to try and turn this into a learning moment. “Well, next time, do you think you could tell someone before you run out into the night?” John tried to keep his temper. “Or at least not wait until the fifth text to respond? Do you know, for a fleeting moment, I thought you’d actually been kidnapped?”

Sherlock dismissed the notion with a small laugh and a wave of his arm. “Kidnapping? Really, John?”

Definitely trying to keep his temper. John continued. “Of course, that was before I discovered that all the cash in my wallet had disappeared…”

“I didn’t have a choice, John, Mycroft left me penniless.” Sherlock nodded toward the Belstaff in the corner. “Wallet’s in the inside pocket. Whatever I spent I’ll return as soon as my brother chooses to thaw my accounts.”

 “Speaking of thaw,” John said, rifling through the indicated coat pocket. “What _happened_ in the kitchen, Sherlock?”

“Inspiration,” he explained. “And every second that passed was another second it could have been discovered by someone else. ”

“ _What_ could have been discovered?” asked John, his own impatience reaching new heights.

“This.” Sherlock said triumphantly, and slid the tray and its contents towards John.

*****

 

"You need an alibi.” Fulvia tutted under her breath. “So, it’s true? You killed her?”

Chad turned a deeper shade of purple and leaned into the window. “I did NOT, Fulvia. I did no such thing.”

“So why did that witness say you did?”

“That was no witness – he’s one of Melinda’s old friends. Convenient, innit? I’m being framed.” He spat into the receiver. “Frankly, my bet’s on the girl.”

“So where were you, Chad?” she narrowed her eyes, taking in the measure of the man she’d once married. “Where were you when Melinda was killed? Off with one of your girls?”

“It’s not like that.” Chad’s voice dropped. “I was on a run.”

“Jesus, Chad…”

“Totally different team, nothing to do with Lambeth.” He scratched the day’s growth of beard on his chin. “But you see my situation. I need a friend, Fulvia. Will you be my friend?”

Fulvia pressed her palms down against her thighs under the countertop, to steady the shakes. “How would it work?”

“It’s like this: the day before the murder, I happened to experience a sudden burst of remorse, and revealed myself to you, your long lost ex-husband returned to you at last. We had a lovely reunion and spent the night in a classy suite, far, far away from Melinda’s sleazy hotel. Three days later, I’m nicked and you haven’t had a moment to call the coppers.”

Fulvia chipped the last of the Clambake off her right hand. “I dunno, Chad.”

“You say that like you’ve got a choice, darlin’.”

She looked up, and stared at him through the glass, his expression crystal clear. She sighed. “I need a drink.”

Chad spoke deliberately into the phone, pointing for emphasis. “By all means, go get pissed, you used-up old duffer. But you will call Croft by 2pm today and he will arrange for the police to take your statement, or else I will make absolutely sure that you, my dear, go down with me. Are we understood?”

She nodded, bitterly, and hung up the phone.

She really did need that drink.

 

*****

John’s mouth gaped. “Is that…?”

“Yeah.”

Inside the tray was a handgun, ice melting in pieces all around it.

“The one used to kill Melinda Wilson? Are you sure?”

“Same caliber, I checked against the initial reports. And, it’s registered to none other than…want to guess John? Come on, guess!”

“I don’t know, Louis Lloyd?”

“Exactly so! I’m running fingerprints now.”

“Why are _you_ running them?” John’s brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you take this straight to Lestrade?”

“I found it, it’s mine.” Sherlock said, sounding for all the world like a belligerent child. “I’ll give it to him eventually.”

“Where on earth did you find it?”

Sherlock sat up then, and turned his eyes to John’s, alive and bright. “Ice, John!”

“Ice?”

“The ice machine! At the hotel, Victor said he’d been on his way back from the ice machine when he ran into Wilson. Consider the layout of the crime scene, John, picture it in your mind…”

And so John did, remembering the wide hallway, the shoddy paint on the doors, emergency exit at one end of the hall, the lift at the other, the open rubbish bin near the buttons. Beside the lift, a small passageway, one that led, presumably, to the vending area and the ice machine.

“If you had to hide a gun quickly, John, in this space, where would you hide it? Can’t keep it on your person, or in a room, they’re all bound to be searched. ISame with the rubbish bin. Up in the ceiling tiles? No, pre-war building, no tiles, just plaster. No time for the lift, or to race down to the fire exit, so what do you do, John?”

“Go to the passageway.”

“Of course you do – you nip in, dispose of the gun and nip back out into the hallway.”

“But The Met would’ve found a gun in the ice machine, Sherlock. Hard not to find a big, black hunk of metal, buried in the ice!”

Sherlock grinned. “Not buried, John. Hidden. Hidden so cleverly that it couldn’t be found later, even when they wanted to.”

The detective tossed him his phone. Pictures of an ice machine – the ice machine, apparently – with the lid open, plastic bucket dug into the ice.

“So, it’s the ice machine, I still don’t…”

“Go to the next picture.”

John flickered his finger over the device, revealing a ledge above the lid, above the ice and beside the chute that spit out new cubes, a ledge that could only be seen by sticking your head directly into the bin and looking up toward the front of the machine. On that ledge, frozen into the corner and encased in ice, was the gun.

Sherlock watched John connect the dots with excitement. “The killer would’ve tried burying it in the ice, first, but would’ve quickly realised the folly, John. By the time he found the ledge, the gun would already be wet, and he would have placed it on the ledge, perhaps anticipating a quick return. What he didn’t anticipate was that the chute would continue to make ice, and that the ice would stick to the wet metal, quickly encasing it and camouflaging its shape, its color hidden by the shadows on the ledge and because, really, who would stick their head directly into a bin of ice?”

“Really, who would?” John smirked. “Sherlock, how did you possibly…?”

The detective beamed. “Our shoddy housekeeping! If we’d defrosted our freezer, like ever, I don’t know if I would’ve thought about it.”

And suddenly it all made sense. The open freezer door, the melting ice. John nodded his head. “Our ice bin had frozen over!”

“I had to chip it out.” Sherlock confirmed, and lifted up the icepick triumphantly.

“You mad genius…” John mused, floored once again by Sherlock’s ability to go about life with more than one program running. “In the middle of everything, in the middle of all that happened last night, you were still processing the crime scene?”

Sherlock’s triumph waned, and he looked at the floor, delivering an almost apologetic shrug. “It’s just part of my nature, not any sort of reflection on you or Victor. Doesn’t mean I was any less engaged in what we were doing, John, I promise, I --”

“No, no, Sherlock, I wasn’t…” John rushed to correct Sherlock’s presumption. “I didn’t mean that as a criticism. I meant it as a…compliment. I mean, no one else’s mind works like yours. No one’s.”

Sherlock felt the rush of John’s words wash over him, and it was remarkable, he thought, the way this man saw him. Anyone else in the world would have been angry, angry that they hadn’t received the full weight of Sherlock’s attention at such a critical time. But John, John took it as yet another sign of his brilliance. Sherlock stammered in response. “Th-thank you, John, that’s…quite unexpected.”

“You’re welcome, Sherlock. Well deserved.”

For a moment, their eyes locked, and John held his breath. Sherlock’s expression was curious, and it seemed as if he were going to say something. But the moment passed, and John vamped to cover the awkward moment by asking about the gun.

“So, fingerprints, then? How does that work? Does water wash them off?”

“No, quite the opposite.” Sherlock stopped and corrected himself. “Actually, strike that. Warm water can be a problem, but cold water actually preserves them.”

“Because the prints are mostly oil, right?”

“Exactly, and warm water melts the oil.” Sherlock held out the magnifying glass for John to see. “Cold water, on the other hand, preserves it. Or them, as the case may be.”

 “The killer left more than one print, then?”

“No, John. Even better.” Sherlock said, a giddy note in his voice. “There were more than one _set_ of prints on the gun.”

*****

 

“Without evidence, I’m sorry, but we can’t keep him for much longer.” Lestrade explained, his frustration visible. “And if someone shows up to support his alibi, it could be even sooner.”

Across his desk, the man grimaced. “And my testimony? Isn’t that evidence?”

“Mr. Trevor, it’s circumstantial. And given your relationship with the family – which would’ve been nice if that had been shared with us from the very beginning, I might add – throws your status as an unbiased eyewitness right into the bin.”

Victor threw himself back into the chair, equally frustrated. “How’d you find out?”

Lestrade shook his head. Unbelievable. “Wilson himself. Saw your name on the record, didn’t he? Even with a lawyer as low-rent as Croft, he would’ve seen it in the papers. You’re just lucky I didn’t throw you into a cell and lock you away.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Lestrade sat up. “We were waiting to see what turned up on Wilson first. Look, I’m going to be honest with you: we can make the insurance fraud stick, obviously, one way or another. The murder charge is something else entirely. We need evidence, and more than just your word for it. My people are looking into Louis Lloyd’s whereabouts over the last week, and forensics are doing the best they can with what they have to work with. There’s just not much there.”

Victor cleared his throat. “Sherlock’s chasing something, too, I think. He disappeared this morning.”

 _This morning, eh?_ Lestrade’s eyebrows lifted, always alert to more pieces to the puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes. “Well, if he turns up something, please have him pass it along to us. You want Wilson, and in lieu of a better candidate, we want him, too. But we need your help to do it.”

“Understood.”

“You know what would really help?” He leaned forward, and flipped the file folder open. “Lifting the post mortem ban. You have pull with the family.”

“What do you think you’re going to find with a post mortem?” Victor challenged.

“I don’t know,” the DI said, honestly. “But more evidence is always better than less.”

Victor shook his head. “The family’s firm on this, I’m afraid.”

Lestrade flipped through some papers in the file. “Religious reasons? What are they? Jewish? Islamic? Hindu? Jehovah’s Witness?”

Victor smiled. “Christian Science. Funeral and burial matters are up to individual’s wishes. This, apparently, was Melinda’s wish.”

“Ah.” Lestrade sat back, crossing his arms. “So when’s the funeral?”

“There’s been some difficulty with the funeral home.” Victor explained. “Allowing time for transportation and reconstruction for the viewing, we’re hoping for Thursday at the latest.”

Lestrade made some notes. “Send me the address of the church and the cemetery. The killer may attend. Plus, barring further evidence, Wilson will be out by then, and if he is the killer, I want you all protected. We’ll send escorts.”

“Thanks.” Victor stood up. “And thanks for not throwing me into a cell.”

“I may still, yet,” Lestrade said, raising an eyebrow. “You know, I’ve seen your arrest record. Don’t know how you made it into the country, but it wouldn’t be hard to make a case for deportation.”

“Is that a threat, Detective Inspector?”

“No, it’s a warning. Keep your nose clean.” Lestrade stood up and extended his hand. “In the meantime, have Sherlock call me with whatever he turns up.”

“Will do…Greg, is it?” Victor smiled, and held their handshake just a little too long...

 

*****

“How many prints were there?” John peered over Sherlock’s shoulder, looking at the files on the screen.

“Four unique sets of prints. I’m running them through a hack into the Yard’s database, but the connection’s slow. It might take some time.”

“Four prints?” John asked, incredulous. “You’re telling me there were four killers?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I’m telling you that four people touched this gun. Only one could have pulled the trigger.”

On the table, Sherlock’s phone chimed.

John smiled, and picked it up. “Oh, you got a replacement. That was quick.”

“Could hardly count on yours, not with you running around town with that Chemist…” Sherlock shot him a slight smile, and plucked the device out of John’s fingers, holding it up to read:

**Red’s back and drinking. Skelly**

“Ha! John, time to go…” Sherlock said, pulling on his coat.

“But the fingerprints?”

“They’ll be churning for a while.”

“Where are we going? Please tell me somewhere where you can put on some bloody shoes…”

“We can stop by 221B on the way.” Sherlock secured the gun back in its evidence bag, and pocketed it. “Need to put this someplace safe, anyway.”

They stopped at the flat long enough for Sherlock to stash the gun and put on some proper clothing -- including, John was happy to see, proper shoes. While Sherlock was changing, John lingered in the kitchen, giving him privacy. Sherlock’s room was back to being private territory, without Victor here, without Sherlock pulling him inside, without an express invitation. They were still flatmates, and last night hadn’t really changed anything, John understood, although a glimmer of something that was said last night kept surfacing, but it was something John really needed to ask about when he and Sherlock were alone, whenever they would stop racing from one location to another.

“Ready, John?” Sherlock swept into the room looking, well, like Sherlock: confident, impeccably groomed and all-around gorgeous. He moved to the door without waiting for an answer and grabbed his usual blue plaid scarf from the hook…but he paused before wrapping it around his neck. Impulsively, he put it back, returning it to the hook and picked up his old scarf instead, the plain blue one, the one with the fringe, THE scarf, John noted, with a small shiver of realisation.  He swallowed sharply.

“You…haven’t worn that one in a while.” John said, aiming for nonchalant.

Sherlock turned. “Meaning?”

“Nothing,” said John. “Just an…observation. Thought you preferred the plaid.”

Sherlock looked at him questioningly. “Thought I’d change it up. Okay with you?”

John tried to sound casual. “Oh, yeah. Not really my call, is it? I mean, we’d, uh, better go, hadn’t we?”

John exited at that moment without looking at Sherlock, not sure he could retain his nonchalance a second longer.  Sherlock followed him out the door, and before they knew it, they were walking into The (largely empty) 12 Steps pub.

“This is Fulvia’s pub, isn’t it? John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, cocking his head towards the bar. “And that’s Fulvia.”

As they made their way through the tables, a young woman carrying a backpack bumped into Sherlock. John’s eyes caught Sherlock passing money into the woman’s hands as she rushed away. “Skelly?” he asked, after she was out of earshot.

“Sarah Kelly, yes.” Sherlock corrected. “What kind of name would ‘Skelly’ be?”

Sherlock intentionally sat back down in the same bar stool he’d sat in two nights before. “Hello, Fulvia.”

“Birmingham!” She said, her voice only ever-so-slightly slurring from the drink. “Come back for more, love? Ooh, and brought a friend.”

John smiled, and gave her a small salute.

Sherlock leaned in, placing his elbows on the bar, affecting his former posture with her, echoing his order from that night. “Scotch on the rocks – make it two this time. And a third for yourself. Bad day?”

She frowned. “That obvious?”

“No, I’m just that clever.” Sherlock winked. John was rather enjoying this slouchy, flirty Sherlock, although it certainly would’ve been better to be on the receiving end, even if it was all make-believe.

Fulvia dropped the drinks in front of them. “Start a tab?”

“No, we’re just in for the one drink. Pay the lady, John, you’ve taken all of my cash.”

John fumbled for his own wallet while Sherlock continued to talk. “I’m afraid I fibbed to you the other night, Fulvia. I’m not from Birmingham. And I’m not here on business. I’m actually here about Chad Wilson.”

Fulvia’s face was stricken. “He said I had until two this afternoon! It’s only just past twelve!”

“You had until two to what?”

“To make my decision. It’s not fair, he said two!”

“Ah.” Sherlock paused, shifting gears. “And tell me, what is your decision?”

She downed the rest of her drink. “Fine. Tell him yes. Tell him I’ll do it.”

“But you don’t really want to, do you?” Sherlock asked, his voice going soft and kind, prompting Fulvia to go instantly weepy.

“No, I really don’t,” she said, and John handed her his handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes, and poured herself another drink. “But what choice do I have? He’s already killed one wife.”

John and Sherlock exchanged glances. John cleared his throat. “Do you, um, mean Melinda?”

“Who else?” she snorted, taking a long draw from her glass. “There’s only the two of us, and I’m still here.”

“So you think he killed her?” Sherlock asked. “I mean, really?”

She leaned in. “He says he didn’t. Says he was framed by that druggy daughter of his, which is possible.”

John nodded. “Right. She takes drugs.”

“No, she _runs_ drugs. Ever since she was a kid. Like, a kid-kid. It was all in the safe, til the robbery, anyway.” She waved her hand at them. “Well, you know all about it, since you work for him.”

“We know about the gun, too, Fulvia,” Sherlock said, steepling his fingers. “Do you still have it? Chad wanted to know.”

“I already told him, the daft bastard,” she groaned. “It was in the safe, wasn’t it? It was stolen along with everything else…”

Sherlock reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a card and handed it to her. “Fulvia, I need you to listen to me: this is Detective Inspector Lestrade’s card. If you choose to provide Chad with a false alibi, this is the man you would call. If you choose NOT to provide Chad with a false alibi, this is also the man you should call, for protection. Do you hear me?”

She took the card. “I may be getting older, love, but I’m not deaf.  Call this Lestrade bloke either way – although, wait, why would Chad want to help me find protection? Wouldn’t it be protection _from_ him? Who are you two?”

“Who’s the clever one now, love?” smiled Sherlock. “You’re right. We don’t work for Chad. But we do want to protect you. Call Lestrade. Do what’s right. What was it you said the other day? Oh, right,” he said, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. “You can’t be too safe, Fulvia.”

Sherlock stood up, abruptly. “John? About time to swing by the lab.”

The shorter man followed his lead, and with a tip of his head to Fulvia, he exited the room with Sherlock, leaving nothing but Lestrade’s card behind in their wake. Fulvia looked down at it, and considered her next move.

But first, she thought, perhaps she’d have just one more drink. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***  
> \- Clambake is an actual nail polish color, and [it’s positively hideous](http://www.essie.com/Colors/Corals/clambake.aspx). I can’t imagine it on someone like Fulvia, with hair “a shade of red that nature never intended”!
> 
> \- Starbucks, once again, proved to be my savior for markedly disturbing Googling – first, [for the skinny on detecting fingerprints on wet handguns](http://www.evidencemagazine.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=658) (other sources [here](http://www.forensicmag.com/articles/2012/06/optimal-temperatures-latent-print-recovery#.UsESz-AgzpA) and [here](http://digilib.gmu.edu/jspui/bitstream/1920/7484/1/Devlin_thesis_2011.pdf))
> 
> \- Also, Starbucks saved the day with my searches on [police station procedures](http://www.mackesyscrime.co.uk/arrested/police-station/at-the-police-station.html) and [religious and cultural considerations for autopsy](http://www.ohsu.edu/xd/health/services/doernbecher/research-education/research/pape-family-pediatric-research-institute/upload/Religious-and-Cultural-Considerations-for-Autopsy.pdf).
> 
> \- Finally, [I posted this](http://www.kold-draft.com/commercial-ice-machines/ice-machine-images/ice-machine-GB450-B550-electrical-lg.gif) earlier tonight on my Tumblr page as a tease for my Tumblr peeps. (It’s a schematic for a commercial ice machine!)
> 
> Hopefully, you enjoyed this chapter – there were lots of caseficcy facts flying around, so hopefully, it was not too much to take in all at once!
> 
> Thanks again for being the most fab readers in all of the fandom. You thrill me, with every comment, every kudo, every e-mail message, and every ask! 
> 
> Cheers!  
> vex.


	19. "Yielding Results"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flawed experiment prompts a conversation between Sherlock and John, Victor visits one of his old haunts, and Fulvia receives an unwelcome visitor.

 

Sherlock was pleased with himself.

He often was.

But this time, in the cab, he visibly thrummed with expectation. They were in the thick of a case, with new evidence revealed, the players were taking their positions and the end, he predicted, was well in sight, Sherlock flexed his fingers and thought of the 6 -- no, 8, different ways this case could resolve itself and calculated the odds for each resolution.

Everything was coming together nicely.

He cut a glance to the man beside him and looked, really looked at him, for the first time since the night before. Sherlock had been surprised this morning that things hadn’t changed between them, that John hadn’t gone suddenly awkward around him, or, worse, gone clingy. The Work remained as it always had, and John remained as he’d always been: solid, dependable and true.

Of course, the small voice inside of him nagged, it begged the question of _why_ …

 _Why_ had nothing changed? From what Sherlock knew of human nature, this sort of thing should have dramatically changed their interaction. Events like last night were, by nature, transformative, turning friendships into relationships or inciting them to self-destruct in a glorious blaze of bitterness and disappointment. For there to be absolutely no fallout, no shift in perspective, for John to remain completely unruffled, well...Sherlock was at a loss. Over the course of the last few hours, this question had picked at him and buzzed on the edge of his brain, a pulsing question mark, a burning curiosity, the very worst kind of mystery.

So he’d shelved the thought, pushed it to the back of his mind. Focused on The Work. Tried not to be distracted by it, or by the figure sitting in the car beside him. Soon they’d be back in the lab, the print match completed, and those results would tell him their next move. In the lab…

_(…in the lab with Stamford, all those months ago…the understanding that if Mike had spent eight seconds longer at the chip shop that day, the timing would have been thrown off just enough for him to miss John, and then Sherlock and John would never have met and they’d have never been flatmates, partners, friends…all because a man finished a plate of chips…this kind of thinking could drive one mad…)_

“I underestimated you, John.” He said, impulsively.

“I’m sorry,” John said, confused. “Come again?”

“That first day, at Bart’s.” Sherlock slipped on his gloves, the cold seeping into the poorly insulated taxi. “You were – are – small, utterly non-threatening in your bloody jumpers and button-downs, your prim taste in footwear. More like a Uni professor than anything else.”

John grimaced. Bloody fantastic. “Okay, is there a point to this sartorial criticism, Sherlock?”

 ( _Yes,_ Sherlock thought. _Because then you’d gone and killed a man for me, and my impression of you changed instantly, in the pull of a trigger_.)

John had, in fact, become infinitely more interesting in that split-second, infinitely more compatible and useful to Sherlock. Attractive, yes, he’ll admit that, now. Admit that in that one, breathless moment when they’d returned to the flat, laughing and high on adrenaline, Sherlock had fought the urge to press him hard against that wall, to push his knee between the smaller man’s legs and _bite_ his way into his mouth. Fuck…

“It’s just,” Sherlock struggled, uncomfortably. “Yesterday I told you that I’m rarely surprised by anyone or anything, John, but that wasn’t true. Not as far as you are concerned. You surprised me that day, with the cabbie. And you keep surprising me.”

_(And last night especially…)_

“Okay, that’s…good, I guess?” John offered, unconvincingly, trying to figure out what Sherlock was going on about and hoping he wouldn’t specifically mention what John had done to that cabbie within earshot of their _current_ cabbie.

“ _Very_ good, John,” Sherlock said, giving him a sharp nod and noticing the subtly perceptible effect his words had on the doctor – the maddeningly-appealing lick of his lips, the slight widening of his pupils, the slow shift of his legs – and he wondered if John, himself, was even aware. “And I just thought you should know that, I mean…because, well,  I just…thought…you should…know that.”

_(Oh, bugger…)_

“Alright. Well, good. Better to surprise you than bore you, I guess?” John answered vaguely, treading lightly, feeling like there was a compliment in there somewhere, but not being able to catch the tail of it.

Sherlock knew he was cocking it up, bringing up ancient history and then muddling the message with imprecise words. But he couldn’t be more precise, now could he? He didn’t know what he was trying to say, he’d just felt a need to say _something_. Something that would tip the scales in his direction, that would force a reaction from John, be it awkward or clingy or anything, any sort of response that would mean that last night might have some perceptible impact on the days that followed. Sherlock didn’t even know why it was suddenly important that there even _be_ an impact, he just felt that for things to stay unaltered would be somehow unnatural, would run counter to the laws of the world as he understood them. He needed to garner a response, for science – or rather, that’s what the genius told himself.

But John was thick, stubbornly refusing to take the bait, to demonstrate the predicted behaviour, and then with a bright, rare flash of self-awareness, Sherlock suddenly made out that it was _he_ who was demonstrating the predicted behaviour, righting things for science, that _he_ was the one being awkward and clingy -- both at the same time, in fact -- and he mentally stammered, retreating immediately, thoroughly horrified.

“Quite right, John. Obviously.” he snapped, as the taxi pulled to a halt outside Bart’s. “We’ll…we will call Lestrade after we get the results on the prints.”

John quirked a brow at the abrupt shift in conversation. “Yeah, alright.”

Sherlock bounded out of the car, flipping up his collar. Impatient, he leaned down to peer into the car. “Quickly, John, we haven’t got all day. “

John got out of the taxi and followed the detective inside, feeling confused and remotely – maybe – flattered?

It seemed that it was now John’s turn to feel pleased with himself…

 

 

*****

 

As soon as Victor had left The Yard, he hailed a taxi and dialed his phone. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he’d muttered to himself, urgency coloring his words.

At last, the phone was answered on the other end. “It’s me,” he said, his voice serious. “Nothing, they’ve got nothing, love – and the scene is clear, DI confirmed it when he walked me out. Hang on,” He paused to enter the cab that had stopped before him. “Camden Market, yeah?” he said to the driver. “And there’s an extra tenner in it for ya if you run all the lights.”

Victor returned to his phone conversation. “I’m back. Yeah. I dunno..maybe I gave him too much credit. But if I was wrong, if I can get there first…“

His foot tapped nervously. “I gotta risk it. If you’d just let me risk it this weekend, we wouldn’t…I know. I. Yeah…I know. Look, settle down, okay? I promise, I will come get you, you can depend on me. I just gotta make this one stop first.”

And so the conversation continued, until he was just short of his destination. Victor tapped the driver. “Can you let me out right here? Thanks.”

The car came to a stop at the far edge of Camden Market, racks and bins of clothing and merchandise spilling out on the pavement. Victor handed the driver his fare, along with the extra for running the lights, and he disappeared into the crush of people making their way through the kiosks and tents that wound their way through Camden Lock.

He moved quickly, darting in and around tourists, yuppies and vendors, a mad crush of people, food, colors, noises, a rush he’d liked better before it had become so gentrified, a rush he didn’t have time to appreciate right now. He pushed through the masses…

At the end of one of the pathways was a particularly busy t-shirt vendor, with racks of sweatshirts and hoodies lined up outside. Victor slipped a gray hoodie off a rack, quick as you please, and moved on, putting it on once he’d gotten safely out of sight. He flipped up the hood. A pair of sunglasses mysteriously found its way into his pocket and soon thereafter, appeared on the bridge of Victor’s nose.

He kept his head down, and crossed a street, moving away from the Market and further into Camden Town proper, taking back routes and cutting through alleyways until he came to the building he was looking for:  the hotel where, just four days ago, he’d watched Melinda Wilson die.

 

 

****

The lab computers were still churning when Sherlock and John had returned, and Sherlock quickly divested himself of his coat, his cheeks still lightly flushed – but whether it was from the cold weather or from the conversation, John wasn’t certain.

He eyed the detective as he worked, with no small amount of curiosity. John pretended to be absorbed in his phone as he considered the events of the last few minutes. He wasn’t wrong, was he? Sherlock Holmes had been impulsive and strangely complimentary in the car, but had become suddenly awkward and embarrassed when John had been slow to understand. Once they’d reached Bart’s, however, the detective had done a complete 180, becoming dismissive, all business – becoming a Sherlock that, in truth, was closer to the one he was used to, but somehow more detached, his eyes belligerently refusing to meet John’s and now, the doctor realised, the beginnings of an actual pout were beginning to surface on the man’s perfectly-formed bottom lip.

John was reminded of himself, at 15, asking Emily Gardner to a dance with a flushed face and a rush of words, babbling compliments and feeling a little bit like he was going to be sick.

_(Oh, Christ….had Sherlock Holmes been flirting with him?)_

It was ridiculous. Impossible. He’d seen the man flirt, the night before, taunting and teasing him until he’d felt his cock would explode. His vocabulary was unparalleled, his ego, unflagging, I mean, Sherlock was nothing if not confident to a fault. There was no way that John Watson could make that man act like a flustered schoolboy, there was no way. He must’ve been mistaken, must’ve misinterpreted the signs. John was tired, after all, not surprising…

…and yet…

The doctor decided to try an experiment. It was, after all, something Sherlock would approve of, yes? Taking a scientific approach to an emotional question? And god knows Sherlock had subjected him to enough experiments without asking him first.

_(Plus, it had the potential to be a great deal of fun…)_

“I’m going to pop down to the machines for a coffee. You want one?” he asked. Sherlock made a noise that he interpreted as a no and he left the lab, returning a few minutes later with a hot cup of vending machine coffee.

“So, do we have any matches yet?” John asked, as he joined Sherlock behind the desk, peering over his shoulder into the computer. He stood a little closer than he normally would have, but still far enough away for plausible deniability. Sherlock’s back straightened just a bit in response, but it was hardly conclusive data.

“No. It lost connection while we were out, but I’ve got another way in.” Sherlock said automatically, offhand, still avoiding looking at John.

“Oh, yeah? That’s…good.” John purred into his ear. “So we might be here for a while, then?”

“Afraid so,” Sherlock said, frankly. “What – what are you doing, John?”

“Nothing,” John lifted his eyebrows and straightened himself. “Watching you work, drinking this coffee.” He stirred the drink twice with the stirrer stick before pulling it out and popping it into his mouth, to _suck_ …

“John.”

“What?” John grinned, innocently. “If you have a problem with me drinking hot beverages, Sherlock, we’re going to have a bit of a problem.”

Sherlock shot him a look.

John walked back around to the other side of the counter, pleased with the data he’d been able to collect thus far. He removed his coat, surreptitiously undoing a button on his shirt and opened his collar.

Sherlock stopped mid-keystroke. “John, I have to tell you that your aim is admirable, but your procedure is deeply flawed.”

“Excuse me?” John cocked his head to one side, confused.

Sherlock smiled. “Your experiment. It’s yielding results that do not support your aim.”

“My…aim?”

“Yes.” Sherlock stood up, and moved around to the same side of the counter as John. “I behaved oddly in the car, and instead of talking to me, you sought to confirm your suspicions in another way. Naturally, you initiated an experiment to prove your aim, except your procedure is proving a wholly separate hypothesis.”

“What hypothesis?”

“This one.” Sherlock said, with a wicked grin, and pushed John’s back up against the door. He bent that long, elegant neck, and kissed at the spot revealed by John’s undone button. “You see, John, you set out to prove that you made me…nervous…in the cab, presumably because I have feelings for you. But the little pantomime you’ve been doing since we arrived – the standing too close, your words in my ear, the coffee stick, for fuck’s sake, not to mention the aborted strip tease – my responses to those things only prove that I _want_ you, you git, and you already knew that, didn’t you? Last night should have taught you that. All you’ve proven today is that you can get me hard. Which is…obvious.” He ran a hand over John’s crotch at the word “hard”, and John swallowed, closing his eyes.

“I didn’t, I mean…” John stuttered. “I was just…I mean, you’re right. I should, um, amend my procedures. How do you, ah, propose I do that?”

Sherlock kissed him on the lips. “Ask me, John. Just ask.”

John lifted his chin, and looked Sherlock straight in the eyes. “Alright, then. Did I make you nervous in the cab earlier?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m awkward about feelings. But I felt like one of us should talk about them. Feelings, I mean. It’s been long enough.”

John furrowed his brow. “Long enough? It’s been eight hours!”

“Liar.” Sherlock pushed back from the wall. “Or maybe it’s just that I’ve already lost you to Victor…”

“I…what?” Sherlock seemed to be moving from one topic to another, without allowing John to catch up. “How long are we talking, Sherlock? If not since last night, how long?”

Sherlock moved quickly back to the computer. “Nevermind. Told you I was awkward.”

John charged towards him. “Oh, no you don’t. Last night you said ‘four fucking months of wanking’, Sherlock, I remember very specifically, ‘four fucking months of wanking’ and I was too goddamned stunned to say anything about it.”

Sherlock made a face. “Again, doesn’t prove your original aim. Just proves desire. Not the same thing.”

John ‘s hands tightened into fists, his fingernails pressing into his skin. “Fuck my original aim, we’ll get to that in a goddamned minute! Tell me that you’ve wanted me since the beginning, since I bloody well moved in!”

“Alright, fine, I will, if you bloody well admit the same!”

“Oh, don’t act like you deduced that, you’ve already admitted that I surprised you, with the sub thing, you didn’t have a clue until Victor!”

“I didn’t know about the kink, but I knew, even BEFORE you moved in, that you were in love with me, John. You clearly came on to me that night at Angelo’s and – “

“For the last fucking time, I WAS NOT HITTING ON YOU! I was trying to politely ask about –“

“My availability, yes, but it was less polite than it was clumsy. Cute, though. I was flattered. Never dreamed it would go anywhere, you were such a vanilla boy, all those bland girlfriends…”

“…and then Victor.”

“Right, then Victor.”

They stared at one another, breathing deeply, both out of arguments, reaching the same name at the same time.

The computer chimed.

 

 

 

 

****

The building stood at a crossroads, and Victor slipped in through a side delivery entrance. It took him a moment to orient himself, before he knew which way to go. He made his way up to the right floor, taking the stairs and moving quickly, and once he’d reached the correct floor, he’d cautiously opened the door, swiveling his head to make sure the hallway was clear. A maid pushed a cart past the door and into the lift beside the staircase. The lift door closed. Victor stepped out of the stairwell and into the vending area alcove, unwilling to spend anytime at all looking at the freshly scrubbed spot of carpet that had once been blood-soaked and matted with gore…

In the alcove, Victor found the ice machine, opened the bin door and felt for something in the upper left corner ledge.

Nothing.

He dropped to his knees, reached into his pocket for a small flashlight, and twisted his body so that his back was to the ice. He ducked his head into the machine and shone his flashlight into the corner.

Nothing.

Nothing except for a series of small scratches, dug into the metal, fresh scratches, judging by the few curls of dislodged paint that still clung to the metal.

“Goddammit,” Victor said, bitterly. “Fucking Sherlock…”

 

 

 

 

****

The chime of the computer jolted both men out of their conversation and into the investigation. Sherlock and John flew to the computer screen. The program had successfully matched one of the four sets of fingerprints on the gun, and it displayed the name of the match in broad, green letters.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, and John’s legs buckled a bit beneath him.

The name on the screen was:

VICTOR TREVOR

 

 

 

*****

 

Fulvia was cleaning up after a disappointing lunch rush, scrubbing glassware while Jeremy ran to the back storeroom for more gin, a case of Tiger beer and the rest of the open case of Grolsch.

“Oh, and Jer,” she called after him. “Bring more cider, too, yeah?”

“Got it!” he shouted back.

The bar was nearly empty, having hit the 3pm slag a full hour and a half early. She hope the after-work crowd would make up for the afternoon’s failings – not that there was ever a real crowd here, but there was enough traffic to pay the bills, most nights. A lone couple sat in the corner, talking intently and seeming altogether too happy to be married, she thought bitterly, wiping down the bar. DI Lestrade’s card lay near the register, and her eye automatically flickered to the clock. 1:30.

She turned her back to the bar and reached for the phone, muting the television as she did. With some reluctance, she let out a sigh, picked up DI Lestrade’s card and began to dial. Before it connected --

“Oi, my darling,” said a voice behind her, and it sent a chill. She stopped, mid-dial, and promptly hung up, turning to face him.

 “Chad.” She said, quickly slipping the card into the pocket of her cardigan. “Out already, then?”

“No thanks to you.” He replied, and glared at the couple in the corner. “Pub’s closed, Tab’s on the house. Fuck off immediately. NOW.” The couple didn’t need to be asked twice, picking up and leaving before Chad sat down. He deliberately chose a stool near the edge of the bar.

“It’s not yet two, Chad, I didn’t miss the deadline!”

“Waiting ‘til the very last minute, though, weren’t you?” He reached behind the bar and helped himself to a freshly washed pint glass, held it under his tap of choice and poured. “Couldn’t depend on you for my alibi, could I? Made other arrangements instead.”  He pulled the glass back, and took a long sip. “Shame you missed out, dearie. The nick’s going to be a bitch and a half for a sot like you.”

Fulvia’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do, Chad? What did you say?”

He laughed. “Nothing yet, but I will. They can’t make murder stick because I didn’t fucking do it, and because Lily’s little frame job was bloody pathetic. Ashamed to call her my daughter, really, you’d think I’d have sired a better crook.” He laughed, and took another drink, the beer’s head leaving a little line of foam above his lip. He wiped it off with a scowl. “I’m out on bond for the fraud, love, which means that soon I’ll have to take my case to court, and you best believe, I will be singing at that hearing. Singing a song about Lambeth – and a song about you conspiring to help me become Louis Lloyd.”

“Chad, I swear to you I was going to call.”

“Call who, my darling?” He gave her a tight smile. “Those two coppers who were hear earlier? The tall one with the coat and the short one? Oh, yeah, I’ve got eyes, darling. Those men weren’t your usual clientele, my love.”

“Just businessmen from the hotel across the way, Chad. Came in for a drink.”

“Don’t make me laugh.” He said, and stood up. He moved nearer to he wall, to the end of the counter lifting the gate and joining her behind the bar.

“Chad, please, you’re reading this all wrong.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so, “ he said moving forward, and eyeing her hands. “What’s in your pocket, Ful? What have you been fiddling with in there?”

He grabbed her arm and pulled with a sharp jerk, twisting her body and shoving his hand into her pocket. He removed the card triumphantly, and held it up to the light, reading it. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. Well, darling. Well, well, well.”

 “I don’t know who they were. They just left this card. Told me to call.”

“I told you to call Croft.”

“And I was going to.”

“I saw you with the phone in your hand, the phone in your bloody hand and this card.”

“Jer –“ Fulvia called, loudly.

“Jeremy’s not here, he slipped out the back, can’t keep good help these days…”

“Chad, please, I can help you!”

But the discussion ended there, with a pull of his fist, with the sick sound of cartilage snapping and the bang of the bar gate slamming shut. Chad Wilson, aka Louis Lloyd, picked up his pint and drank to the bottom of the glass.

“God, that’s good, Ful,” he said, smacking his lips. “You’ll miss it dearly, I’m afraid, when it’s your turn in prison.” He dropped the empty glass on the counter.

“Fuck with me one more time, old girl, and this whole place will burn, I promise you. Maybe even with you in it. Are we clear, my darling?”

She lifted her head, a small moan to show that she had heard.

He shot her a bitter grin, pocketed DI Lestrade’s card, and let the door slam loudly behind him as he left.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> Lots of unexpected happenings at the end there, or perhaps you’re all two steps ahead of me? I’m not saying a word, other than to say I’ll be curious to see the response to this chapter!
> 
> \- If Mike had stayed to [finish his chips](http://gmcblogs.files.wordpress.com/2013/09/fish-and-chips.jpg), Sherlock and John might never have met…
> 
> \- John's [prim little shoes](http://www.sherlockology.com/wardrobe/shoes-john-watson)
> 
> \- More from vex’s ancient history scrolls: I adored [Camden Market](http://www.camden-market.org/%20) when I was in London. I bought my leather motorcycle jacket from those stalls, and had a stupidly romantic date there, once upon a time (so, naturally, years later, that’s where I decide to place the murder that kicked off this casefic…I'm such a weirdo)
> 
> \- Somehow, John Watson managed to make [this](http://i2.cdn.turner.com/cnn/2010/images/07/27/t1larg.deskcoffee.jpg) sexy...
> 
> \- Thank you to [Neil Whitfield’s blog](http://neilwhitfield.wordpress.com/2006/12/09/how-should-i-write-up-a-science-experiment/) for his students at the Sydney Boys High School for providing me with the proper scientific terminology!
> 
> \- I’ve referenced Tiger and Grolsch beers here, because those were the most favored bottled beers when I served. Young businessmen, for some reason, favored the [Tiger brand beer](http://www.kopi-cafe.com/photos/tiger-beer.jpg), and Grolsch was notable because when you served it, you weren’t allowed to open it for the customer (my boss said the reason most ordered it was to have the pleasure of opening the swing-top themselves). [Apparently, my boss was correct – check out this series of somewhat homoerotic videos](http://cargocollective.com/jilt/Grolsch-Swingtop-techniques%20)…(and yes, I’m now shipping these two cuties!) 
> 
> Appy-polly-loggies for the delay, my friends, but I’m glad I waited to get this just right. Had I published what I had ready to go earlier this week, it would have been a very bland chapter indeed!
> 
> Enjoy, you beautiful perverts!  
> vex.


	20. "Gun and Done"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the prints come in, the investigation brings out the voyeur in Sherlock and John, a home invasion is thwarted and dinner gets interesting…

 

 

The sight of his lover’s name on the computer screen sent John reeling.

“I knew it, damn it, I told you from the very beginning, I…a murderer, a cold-blooded killer and I’ve – well you and I, isn’t it? You and I have been playing around this whole time with a…”

Sherlock shook his head. “We-we don’t know what this means yet.”

“Oh, yes we do. Yes we do, Sherlock.” John’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve been played. And I – Jesus, Sherlock, I let him restrain me, I willingly let him…fuck…” John’s insides ran cold when he remembered just how vulnerable he had been, how he’d laid himself out for him, and trusted him, ignoring his instincts, and why? For sex? What the fuck was wrong with him?

“John!” Sherlock snapped. “Let’s not go there just yet, alright? I need to think.”

“What you need to do,” John said, pointing for emphasis, “is to take that gun down to Lestrade and TURN THE BASTARD IN.”

Sherlock rejected the suggestion. “Don’t be an idiot. We only have one of the prints sorted so far. We only know a part of the story. Let’s see what happens with the other three and then – no, listen to me, John – _then_ we’ll figure out next steps.”

John looked away. Logically, he knew that Sherlock was right, and if he followed his lead, it would allow him to hold on to the tiniest sliver of hope that Victor wasn’t guilty, and that John _hadn’t_ spent the last few days flirting with a psychopath.

_(More than flirting…)_

He dismissed the voice in his head and turned back to look at Sherlock, whose grave expression and flickering hand were dead giveaways that he was just as thrown as John was.

“What if he killed her, Sherlock? What if he really did?” John asked.

“What if he really didn’t?” Sherlock countered, sharply.

John opened his mouth to respond, but before he could respond, the computer chimed once more. They clambered over to see the result on the second set of prints. This time, the letters on the computer monitor were red, and spelled out:

NO MATCH.

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip. “Damn it.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “Just that the owner of those prints has never been arrested.” He clicked a key, commanding the computer to carry on with its search for the remaining sets of prints.

Sherlock’s eyes shifted to John, taking in his tense posture, his tight lip. His hand reached out to touch his shoulder, but never quite made contact. “You know, this isn’t definitive, you know. Just because someone’s prints are on the gun, it doesn’t mean they’re the killer.”

“But it’s a bloody good indicator that they were somehow involved, though, yeah?”

“But not necessarily the killer. If the killer wore gloves–“

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John spat, and then softened. “Please, just shut up.”

And so they stood in silence, for another 17 minutes, as the computer continued to hum, hacking into the Met’s database and looking for matches. The two men stood side-by-side, staring into the monitor, watching the program sort through image after image, the different whorls and loops and arches cycling quickly, gracefully, morphing from one image to another, a mesmerizing display of shifting black swirls.

At the 6-minute mark, Sherlock’s hand tentatively reached for John’s, and he closed his eyes gratefully when it wasn’t rejected. The two continued to hold hands even after the third set of prints came up as NO MATCH, and when the computer chimed a fourth and final time, John squeezed his hand, because this time, it was green letters on the monitor, and those letters spelled out the name that John had been anticipating since Victor’s name had first shown up on the screen. Someone Sherlock had already deemed a liar. Someone already exposed as a criminal. Someone entirely capable of taking the blame off Victor’s shoulders.

This time, it spelled out:

LILY WILSON

“Yes!” Sherlock cried, and released John’s hand in order to pull John’s chin up to his for a celebratory kiss. “I told you, didn’t I? We wait until all the evidence is in before we do anything!”

“So you think she did it?”

“I don’t think anything yet, but it gives us something to work with, and that’s more than we had twenty minutes ago.” Sherlock tossed John his coat and grabbed his own. “Come, John. We’ve got to go, and quickly.”

“Yeah, okay,” John said, flipping his collar flat. “Where are we going?”

Sherlock smiled. “Baker Street, John – and oh, I am a genius! I’ll need you to send a text…”

 

 

***** 

Back at 221B, Sherlock and John watched a grainy, black-and-white Victor rush headlong into his apartment, shouting Sherlock’s name.

“Audio and everything?” John asked, quirking a look at Sherlock. “You little shit.”

“I was curious,” Sherlock said, with a smirk. “You watch porn, it would’ve been no different.”

“No, porn is one thing,” John explained, irritated. “Watching your friend fuck your flatmate without them knowing is an entirely different thing.”

“Tomato, tomahto. Neither of you would’ve ever found out, so what was the harm?”

John had known that Sherlock had broken into Victor’s Wetherby Place flat on Monday morning, known that he’d broken in and found Melinda’s mood ring and the Joe Strummer boots. What he hadn’t known was that he’d returned later that morning and installed four small security cameras in Victor’s flat: one in the kitchen, one in the sitting room, and two in Victor’s bedroom.

“Seriously? Two in the bedroom?”

“It’s all about the camera angles, John. Oh, don’t look at me like that, I needed to get a clear picture of what was happening, didn’t I?”

“So, if I’d gone home with Victor last night instead of coming to see you…?”

“…I would’ve finished playing the violin, opened up a bottle of wine and spent the rest of the evening watching the two of you fuck, yes. Which, you know, I ended up doing anyway, but in a slightly more interactive way.”

And then the bastard winked at him, actually _winked_.

John scrubbed his face with his palm. “God, you are impossible.”

“No,” Sherlock smiled. “I’m quite possible. Probable, even. Now hush – our girl just walked in the door.”

On the television screen, Lily entered and locked the door behind her. “Victor? Are you okay?”

On the monitor, Victor entered the camera shot, rounding the corner into the sitting room. “I’m fine. No one’s here. The door was locked, I don’t think he’s been here.”

Lily furrowed her brow. “What did the text say, exactly?”

Sherlock and John watched as Victor held up his phone and read the message John had sent, under Sherlock’s orders. “ **SH breaking into your flat. Suggest you return immediately – JW** **–** I dunno. Maybe John managed to change Sherlock’s mind?”

“Oh, this is fun…” Sherlock lifted John’s phone from his pocket and began typing. “Talk about interactive.” He hit send.

Moments later, on the television screen, Victor’s phone chirped. They watched him open up the message file and read it out loud. “ **Nevermind. Talked him out of it. The git. JW** – Ha! See, I told you, Lil! Nothing to worry about just yet.”

John cut his eyes over to Sherlock, who smirked.

“I’m telling you, Lily, it was the smartest thing we could do, getting those guys involved.” Victor smiled. “Love those two!”

“More than me?” Lily reached up to stroke Victor’s face.

He kissed her on her forehead. “Oh, not a chance, babydoll.”

John exhaled. That hurt, and more than it should. He’d not known the man long enough to expect love, but even so. A glance over to Sherlock, though, showed he wasn’t the only one wounded.

Sherlock attempted a casual shrug. He wasn’t successful.

John put his hand on Sherlock’s knee. “You okay?”

The detective rolled his eyes unconvincingly. “Please, John. Like a brother, remember?”

“Yeah.” John said. “A brother you have sex with.”

Sherlock crossed his arms. “Your turn to shut up, John. Watch the show.”

Lily and Victor sat cross-legged on their sitting room couch, a mirror image of Sherlock and John, except they faced one another instead of facing out. She was staring at Victor with a serious look.

He stroked her hair, petting her, a calming gesture.

“OK, yes, the gun is gone, but to the best of my knowledge, the Met doesn’t have it. The DI still sees Chad as his number one suspect, okay, and even if he does release him today it doesn’t mean he’s going to stop being a suspect.”

Lily looked at him, red-faced and angry. “But the gun, Victor! Chad’s prints aren’t on the gun!”

He shushed her, finger over her mouth. “That’s why I hired Rabbit in the first place, love. He’s smarter than the police. If anyone has that gun, it’s him.”

“So?” Lily’s fingers trembled with a cigarette packet. “He’s a hateful little shit. I know he’s your friend, but he sure didn’t hesitate to expose me the other night. Why would he hold this in?”

“Because he’s smart enough to know that fingerprints don’t always tell the whole story. And because I’ll ask him to. Because he’s my friend.”

“Not good enough.” She said, pausing to light it and reaching for an ashtray. “You need to fix this, Victor. We need to find that gun. Steal it back.”

“And how, exactly, are we going to do that?”

“Don’t look at me – you’re the thief.”

“Darlin’, breaking in isn’t the problem. It’s the finding. For all I know, he’s secreted it away into some safe deposit box thirty miles from here.”

“Bullshit,” she said, exhaling smoke. “Probably in that pervy little trunk of his. Or in his iced-up freezer.”

Sherlock shifted, guiltily. He _had_ stored the gun in the freezer, and now he felt like a predictable idiot.

“Did she just call your trunk pervy?” John asked.

“My trunk _is_ pervy, John.”

“Yes, but…so that implies that she…that they…umm, aren’t?”

“A bit of a leap, but that's an interpretation.” Sherlock replied, cautiously, his insides twisting. He’d never imagined Victor in a vanilla relationship, not in a million years.

She stood up and walked into the kitchen. Sherlock and John followed her movement, watching her leave one camera shot and enter another. “How did you leave it with John this morning?” she called out, as she reached into his fridge.

“I’m gonna meet them tonight at 7 for drinks.”

She grabbed two bottles of beer and closed the fridge door with her hip, exiting the kitchen cam and re-entering the sitting room shot. She held a bottle out to him.  “Text John,” she said. “Change it to dinner. Somewhere nice, multiple courses. Somewhere that will keep them out of the house for a good long time.” She sat back down beside him. “If you can get me into that flat, I’ll get you the gun.”

Victor looked at her for a moment before responding. “If I agree to this, you gotta promise me – just the gun and nothing else, yeah? No sticky fingers on this one. Gun and done.”

She raised her hands, flashing him a Girl Scout salute. “On my honor, Vic. Gun and done.”

He grabbed his phone once more, and typed.

Moments later, John’s phone chirped at Baker Street.

**Dinner tonight instead of drinks? I’ll text address. 7pm sharp. Dress nice. Bring the Bunny. VICTOR**

John showed the text to Sherlock, who responded with a smile.

“Battle stations, then, John. We’re about to be invaded.”

 

 

****

Hours later, John shuffled into the bathroom to get ready for dinner with Victor, but Sherlock had beaten him to it, steamy clouds filling the room.

“Don’t use all the hot water, please,” John asked, shouting over the shower door. It was one of those textured glass doors, allowing him to see Sherlock’s basic shape through it, but modestly distorting the details. His eyes lingered on the moving shape a second longer than he usually allowed himself, and then he turned to brush his teeth, as always. Last night, it seemed, hadn’t changed much in their usual routine.

This time, though, instead of grunting in agreement or petulantly refusing, Sherlock responded by pushing the door wide, shower still running. “Join me, then.”

_(Okay, so maybe it had…)_

John stared at him through the mirror. “Ex-excuse me?”

“If you’re so worried about hot water, join me. We’ll get clean in half the time.”

John stammered again. “A-are you serious?” He couldn’t quite pull his stare away from the sight of Sherlock’s naked body, rivulets streaming down his chest, curls wet and tamed by the weight of the water…

“God, John, that stare…” Sherlock grinned. “It wasn’t meant as a sexual invitation, you know.”

“Bullshit.” John retorted, embarrassed, and went back to brushing his teeth.

“Fine,” Sherlock pulled the shower door closed. “More hot water for me, then.”

“Fine,” John said, through the toothpaste. “We need to keep our mind on the case, anyway. Stay sharp for tonight, yeah?”

And so John rinsed his teeth and Sherlock washed his hair and they tried to ignore their burgeoning erections. John was flossing when Sherlock spoke again.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Halfway through dinner tonight, you’re to excuse yourself to the bathroom.”

John paused, trying to work out the plan. “Yeah, okay…and come back here, then? Try and surprise Lily?”

“No, we’ve got that well sorted with George.” Sherlock said, from the other side of the glass door. “In the men’s, you’re to remove your pants and bring yourself to the edge of orgasm.”

John’s heart stopped, while his cock went instantly hard. He pulled the string out of his mouth. “I…what?”

“You heard me. And then you’re to throw away your pants and return to the table.” The shower door opened, and Sherlock stepped out, reaching for a towel, his eyes friendly, as if he was making an utterly normal request. “Is that understood, John? Trousers, no pants. And right to the edge, yeah?”

John’s mouth was gaping. “Umm, yeah.”

Sherlock stepped to the counter beside John and finished toweling his hair. “Yeah what, John?” he asked, with a sweet smile.

John looked down. “Yeah, I mean, yes…sir.”

“Good.” Sherlock opened the bathroom door. “Shower’s all yours,” he said, and exited into his bedroom.

John watched him leave, and collapsed into the counter as soon as he was alone.

 _Fucking hell_ , John thought, _that man_...

 

 

****

They met Victor an hour later, on the cigar terrace at Dieci, an Italian restaurant on Marylebone, just around the corner from Baker Street. Clever, really – immediately on the heels of Sherlock and John leaving the flat, Victor would break in, getting Lily in the door and then he’d break for the restaurant, showing up only a few minutes late.

Sherlock ordered drinks for himself and for John, and they settled into a couch facing the door.

It felt cozy.

Like a date.

And under John’s clothes, he felt the scratch of his least-favorite pants, reminding him that tonight was not going to be all business, not if Sherlock had anything to do with it. He gulped his drink.

“So, can we go through this again?” John shifted, arm brushing against Sherlock’s, and god, he looked fantastic in his stark black suit, white shirt, buttons straining to pop and John could almost feel their texture in his mouth. He so wanted to bite…

“Simple. We let him know about the gun, let him explain the prints. Back home, the plan goes into effect the minute the flat is breached. She won’t stay long. John, are you listening?”

“What? Oh, yeah,” John smiled to himself and straightened his tie. “Completely…”

“You weren’t listening to a word I said, were you?”

“I absolutely was, this is a murder investigation. It’s serious, Sherlock.” He said, earnestly. “And you are a serious distraction. You and your game, the loo.”

“It’s not a game, John, it’s just what I want.” He cocked his head and looked at John, appraisingly. “The investigation doesn’t preclude your obedience. They can co-exist.”

John eyed Sherlock cautiously. “Okay, I feel like I’ve missed a beat somewhere.”

“You likely have. I’ll keep you in rhythm.”

“Sherlock, you and I had one night.”

“Yes.”

“Well, Victor and I had two. Didn’t make me his, did it?”

Sherlock snorted and took a sip of his drink. “Hardly. Victor’s a slut.”

“But our one night – a night we _shared_ with Victor, mind you – that’s made me…?”

“Mine, yes.” Sherlock smiled, and leaned back. “Problem?”

“Sherlock, you can’t just claim someone like that.” John fiddled with the cocktail napkin. “I’m not anyone’s.”

“You weren’t. Now you are.” Sherlock adjusted his cuffs. “You are mine just as surely as you are wearing your least-favorite pants under that suit.”

John’s mouth opened and then closed again, as Sherlock’s face turned and brightened, recognizing a familiar face in the crowd.

“Victor: you’re late.”

“Sorry, man. Took the wrong train.” He was slightly out of breath, a light sheen of sweat covering his forehead.

 _(…must’ve had problems with the latch,_ John thought _, run all the way here…)_

He slapped their shoulders, and a waiter appeared, menus in hand. They made their way into the dining room.

“That suit’s unexpected, Victor.” Sherlock said conversationally, once they were seated, with just a little bit of envy in his voice. Victor’s suit was grey, well-fitted, and uncharacteristically conservative. “Bespoke. Not your usual.”

Victor smoothed his tie. “Cash-poor client asked for a barter. Bit plain, really, but I couldn’t say no.”

“Looks good.”

Victor turned to John. “What do you think?”

“Looks good, yeah.” John said coldly, sipping his drink and trying to hide the fact that his hands were shaking. Victor’s fingerprints had been on the gun, his fingers on the murder weapon and they had been on…him, and…

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, John.” Victor said, a note of concern in his voice.

“You’ll have to forgive him, Victor,” Sherlock explained. “He’s having a tough time adjusting to the idea that he may have spent the last two days being brilliantly fucked by a murderer.”

Victor blanched for a split second, before he pulled it right back together. He seemed to relax into the chair cushion. “So, you did find it. I couldn’t imagine anyone else could.”

“No, quite the contrary. Anyone could have found it. You’re just lucky it was me.”

“Am I lucky, Rabbit?” His eyes pierced the detective’s.

“What you are is an idiot,” Sherlock said abruptly. “How do you not wipe off the prints? How do you leave it unprotected in the middle of a crime site?”

“There was no time to wipe the prints, but we didn’t think it mattered because we were coming right back to get it.”

“Who’s we?” John asked, finding his voice.

Victor turned sharply. “You tell me.”

“There were four sets of prints on the gun, Victor, and yours was one of them.”

“Obviously.” He turned to Sherlock. “Were you able to crack the other three?”

“We were able to match one of the other sets of prints. Any guesses as to whose name pinged with the Met?”

As if on cue, Lily Wilson appeared in the dining room, looking distraught. John saw her first, and then the other boys followed his gaze.

Victor’s face fell as she crossed the room to join them.“What have you done, Sherlock?”

“Protected what’s mine.” Sherlock stood for the lady, and nudged John to follow suit. “Be polite, John.”

Victor stood as well, and reached out to her, speaking under his breath. “What happened?”

“I’m…not really sure,” she whispered, and sat down in the chair Victor pulled for her.

“No luck, Lily?” Sherlock smirked. “Glad you could join us. You’re not really dressed for an evening out, but I’m sure they’ll make an exception as a consolation prize for your failed burglary.”

“How did you know?” She asked, anger and confusion playing all over her face.

“Are you alright?” Victor asked her, and whipped his head around to both Sherlock and John. “If you hurt one hair–“

“Relax, Victor, no. No one was hurt.” John said, and then added, bitterly, “ _We_ don’t do that, you see?”

Lily turned to Victor, spilling her story in a rush. “Three minutes after you left, there was a man that came in the flat, said he was there to fix the door, asked if I was supposed to be there, asked who I was and when I wouldn’t say, he handed me a card with this address on it. Told me I was ‘late for dinner’. What, I mean, how…?”

Victor chewed on the inside of his cheek. “You called a tech to _fix the door_ , Sherlock?”

The detective tried to hide his smile. “You were doing the breaking in, I assumed it would be necessary.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’ve gotten better, you little shit!”

“Oh, so there was nothing for George to fix, then?”

Victor rolled his eyes. “The lock was stubborn. A little finessing was required.”

“And by finessing, you mean—“

“Smashing, yes, I smashed the door frame. Fuck you.”

Sherlock giggled. John followed. Victor eventually gave in as well.

“Jesus, lunatics, the lot of you,” Lily groused and signaled a waiter. “I need a drink.”

The rest of the evening stood as the oddest interrogation that John had ever been a part of. Drinks were ordered, starters were shared, but underneath the layer of civility, all parties remained well-aware of their own agendas. It wasn’t until the entrees arrived that Sherlock focused his laser-sights on Lily.

“So, just between us, Lily, why _did_ you shoot your mother?”

It’s to her credit that she did not choke on her octopus carpaccio, instead pausing, chewing, swallowing and wiping her mouth discreetly with her napkin. “Sherlock Holmes, I did no such thing.”

She said it so coquettishly, it was almost a flirtation. Both Victor and John lifted their heads, suddenly alert.

Sherlock, for his part, ran with it. “Don’t sell yourself short, Ms. Wilson. I suspect you’re quite capable with a firearm.”

“That I may be,” she said, coy and teasing. “But being a capable shot hardly means I’d be capable of committing matricide.”

“Point taken.” Sherlock turned his body in her direction, refilled her wine glass and utterly ignored the presence of the other two men at the table. Victor and John looked at one another. “But even you must admit, your fingerprints on that gun make you a member of a very elite club. Every possibility must be examined.”

“And are you always so thorough, Sherlock?”

“I am. As I’m sure you’ve heard,” he said, shifting a meaningful glance to Victor and then returning right back to her.

“I know all about your kinky little games, if that’s what you’re talking about. And I’m not interested.”

“Surprising, considering the company you keep.” Another glance at Victor. Another return to Lily’s deep blue eyes. “And while we’re on the topic, how long _have_ you been keeping his company?”

Lily smiled then, showing teeth. “Oh, Sherlock: you’re jealous. Is that what this is all about?”

“No,” interjected John, impatiently. “This is about your fingerprints on a murder weapon, you foolish girl.”

“John –“

“No, Sherlock, I appreciate this little dance you’re doing, but let’s quit this, yeah? This is not dinner with friends, it’s an interrogation and we need answers!”

“John.”

“Sherlock, please. If we could just –“

“ _John._ ” Sherlock’s fingers on John’s thigh, firm and pressing, and John felt a catch in his throat at the touch. “The entrees have arrived, close enough to halfway through dinner. I believe you have matters to attend to elsewhere. Off you go.”

“But –“

“Go, John. _Now_.”

 

****

John worked his jaw for a moment and stood, throwing down his dinner napkin and storming off to the loo. Sherlock was a right arse if he thought that conversation had been the proper prelude to anything remotely sexy, and he’d be damned if he carried through with that prat’s orders…

He’d been flirting with her – okay, for the case, yes, but still, flirting, followed by an outrageously offhand dismissal of John. Fuck him. He paced. Went into a stall. Banged the door loudly, which actually did make him feel better. He banged it again. Diminishing return. He pissed, and defiantly ignored the presence of his least-favorite pants.

Sherlock Holmes couldn’t make him do things he didn’t want to do.

He didn’t own him, no matter how often he called him “Mine”.  And nevermind the fact that that moment had thrilled John just as much as it had appalled him…

But, nope, no, not going to happen. Just going to zip up and move on and Sherlock’s little assignment be damned. What was he gonna do, anyway, if John didn’t go through with it?

He braced an arm against the Italian tile wall and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, mind drifting to what, exactly, Sherlock _might_ do. And the images that swam in his mind caused his cock to stir, in spite of himself.

“Fuck you, Sherlock, I’m not…” he spoke out loud, alone in the loo, to his cock, to the wall, to the mental images of the crop and restraints, to the peek of the paddle he’d seen in that bag, to the cockring, the ballgag and the bloody leather strop…

(…and all at once, that certain imagined voice in his ear returned…)

“You are, John. You are and you will.” In his mind’s eye, he opened the stall door to find Sherlock there, slouched along the counter, sloe-eyed and smug and looking achingly, jaw-droppingly perfect.

John adopted a stubborn expression and exhaled. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Yes, you do,” laughed Sherlock. “It’s all you’ve been able to think about since you got dressed.”

“No it isn’t,” said John. “I’ve thought about the case.” Images of fingerprints and Victor’s fingers, on his body, in his mouth, pulling him right out of—

“Stop thinking about the case, John,.” An order from Sherlock. “That’s not important. What is important is that you do exactly what I tell you.”

“Sher—“

“Show yourself to me.”

And just like that, John’s hand slipped inside his least-favorite pants, and tentatively, with no small amount of defeat, began to stroke.

He thought of Sherlock in his chair last night, posing like spoiled royalty, eyeing him up with such lewd intent, just the memory of it was enough to make shivers run up his spine. Well, that and the memory of his fingers, graceful and cruel, running over his torso, stroking along each individual rib, the man’s slightly too-long nails digging in from time to time, just to watch John squirm, while Victor…

“Fuck.” Gritted John, losing the thread of the fantasy, Victor making him think of the case. He shook his head, and concentrated. Focus on Sherlock…just…Sherlock and we’ll get there.

So, Sherlock. Before Victor…two months ago, in the kitchen, in his dressing gown and t-shirt, in his pajama pants, his fingers prying open a small orange while he read the morning paper. He had been particularly beautiful that morning, the sun hitting his face just right, his hair a glorious mess, and it had been one of those moments when John’s breath had just been taken right away. Sherlock had looked up, then, feeling John’s eyes on him and raised his brow, quizzically. John’s brain had sent out a signal – should I? Could I? But in that moment, John had told his brain “no”.

He replayed that moment now, taking his length in hand, and imagined _what if_ …

What if he’d told his brain “yes”? Knowing what he knew now, what if he could go back and act on his impulse? He would start with a slow extraction of the paper from Sherlock’s hands, and then settle comfortably in the man’s lap, straddling him so that he might admire Sherlock’s beauty up close and in great detail. He imagined Sherlock would act peevish as his paper was taken, but that he would go quiet as soon as John sat in his lap.

“What are you doing?” he imagined Sherlock asking, and John would smile, and cup the side of Sherlock’s face with his hand, looking into those remarkable eyes.

“Nothing without permission.” John would say, and then, oh, how he would enjoy watching Sherlock’s mind spin…

…but only for a moment. He’d recover, of course, working out John’s orientation and inclination quickly in light of the presented evidence. He imagined Sherlock saying, with irritation: “You’ve already sat in my lap without asking. And wrinkled my paper. What is it, exactly, that you want my permission to do, John?”

And John would go red, and Sherlock would lift his hand to silence him before he could respond, so that he might deliver his inevitable response:

“No, don’t answer. You’ve blushed, so clearly an embarrassing request, something of a clearly intimate nature, considering your placement on my lap, something that has rather a lot to do with the growing erection between your legs and the fact that you’ve spent the last ten minutes staring at me and sighing at intervals, noises you obviously weren’t aware you were making. The strong scent of the orange is likely what prompted you, scent being a powerful memory trigger, no doubt reminding your of some long-forgotten emo—“

And with that, John would pull him down for a kiss, sweet at first, then more demanding.

Sherlock, he imagined, would emerge from the kiss a bit cross. “Funny. I don’t recall giving you permission to kiss me, either, John…”

In real life, John gasped, and his fingers tightened around himself, imagining the way Sherlock would discipline him for that, the punishments that might follow, forced against the kitchen table with no one there to intervene…he allowed himself some dark moments here, dipping into the fantasies that he never would admit to, to anyone, hardly even admitting them to himself…

And in the restaurant bathroom, John was close to cumming, but he didn’t allow himself to. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

“Nothing without permission.” John echoed, to the loo, to his cock, to the wall, releasing himself without release. Damn, this was difficult. He’d experienced denial before, sure, but this was more intense. He slipped off his trousers and removed his least-favorite pants, gently, before pulling his trousers back on over his bare skin, and zipping himself up as carefully as he could. His erection was formidable and obvious and John he wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to cross the dining room without scandalizing the entire restaurant.

Of course, that was the entire point, and his face heated at the thought. He exited the stall and disposed of his least-favorite pants in the bin. John quickly washed his hands in the sink, well aware of the fact that if someone were to walk in, that someone would likely not appreciate being greeted by a well-dressed stranger standing in the middle of the toilets with a raging hard-on.

Jesus, they might even call the police…

He stood before the door, and took a deep breath. Crossing the dining room with his dignity even moderately intact was going to be difficult. He’d have to be fast, and if his timing was right, he’d find a waiter to follow and be shielded by him long enough to get back to the table and into his chair. If he was lucky, incredibly lucky, there was a chance that no one would see.

As he went to open the door, it opened itself -- a burly man pushed his way inside the loo and thankfully ignored John entirely upon entry, except to apologize briefly for nearly knocking him down. Ever polite, John turned to tell him it was okay, and continued on his way out the door, running right into…

“Sherlock?” He’d been loitering in the hallway ( _Christ, had he been listening?_ ) and looked every bit as sloe-eyed and smug as he had in John’s imagination. 

Before the door closed, Sherlock’s arched his brow at the presence of the loo’s new occupant. “Right. Well that’s out. On to Plan B, then.”

“What?” John sputtered, confused, just before Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him into the kitchen, Belstaff flaring out behind him with John in his wake. They darted quickly through the busy kitchen with such authority that no one dared ask them who they were. Even when Sherlock rounded on a prep cook demanding to know where the delivery entrance was, the man simply pointed and got out of his way.

John was breathless, but grateful that in all the chaos of that moment, no one had a second to focus on his crotch. Sherlock found the entrance and shoved the door wide.

Outside, they found themselves in a small, dimly lit bin area, leading to an alleyway that ran alongside the restaurant, and Sherlock wasted no time in pulling John into that alleyway, one hand firmly clamped to John’s cock.

“Nicely done, John. I like it when you follow my instructions.”

“Sherlock, I—“

“No.” Sherlock paused, and looked at him expectantly.

John didn’t disappoint. ”Sir, I mean.”

“Good.” Sherlock nodded, and kissed him on the lips, a quick Atta Boy buss, and John melted. To be fair, of course, _anything_ would have caused John to melt at this precise moment, considering the state of his trousers.

“Why are we here, Sir?”

“Because the toilets were occupied and because the thought of fucking you here, like a whore, out here in this filthy alley while everyone else is warm inside and finishing their four-star dinners makes me…hmm, well, makes me happy, John.”

He roughly tugged at John’s belt and carelessly unclasped his trouser button, actions that he did so expertly and had such a… _practiced_ air, John couldn’t help but wonder if they’d been refined by addict Sherlock, nasty little alleyway junkie skills he’d used to get by, to get his fix. No -- stop, he thought, he didn’t even know if Sherlock had ever done that and anyway, bad idea, too, because he couldn’t think about that sort of thing for very long without wanting to cum. Sherlock took John’s cock in hand, and pulled a moan from the smaller man’s throat. John responded by reaching for Sherlock’s trousers, felt the zip slide open in his hands, and oh...

Turns out John wasn’t the only one who was going commando tonight.

John blinked. “So, do you always…?”

“No, but I knew we wouldn’t have much time.” He took his own cock in hand and pressed it up against John’s, pressed their cocks together in his long, graceful palm and spat into them, stroking them together. They slid against one another, a tight, slick slip and Sherlock was thumbing the head of John’s tortured, leaking cock. John moaned again. Jesus...junkie skills, fuck…

“You can cum, you know? You can cum right now, John. You’re allowed. Of course, if you do, it’s going all over your trousers, I’ll make sure of that.” Sherlock murmured. “We still have the rest of dinner, maybe dessert, maybe even coffee to get through, and you’ll be there with cum-stained trousers, in the middle of this nice restaurant. Would you like that?”

Would he? John knew what the right answer was, the expected answer, the sane answer, but a bolting sense of desire prevented him from doing anything other than whimper.

“Or,” offered Sherlock. “Would you rather I bend you over the hood of that parked car right there, like an actual whore and fuck you ragged?”

John wasn’t good with decisions, and with all the blood in his body currently below the belt, he really wasn’t capable of making a rational one. He didn’t want to be in the restaurant with cum on his clothes, although who the fuck knows, considering his state of arousal, maybe he did? His eyes darted around the alley, assessing the traffic. Directly behind the restaurant, there was an occasional bang of the door as someone took trash to the bins. Along the mouth of the alley, in the other direction, the random person did pass, but the car was situated in such a way that—

“Car. Sir. Sherlock. Please.”

The detective moved quickly, stripping off the Belstaff and draping it over the car, the metal hood too cold to fuck against without it. He grabbed John by the waistband of his trousers and shoved him over the hood, over the coat, pushing him down roughly and letting the man’s trousers drop all the way to the ground. He kicked his legs as far apart as the trousers would allow. Sherlock pulled out his cock without taking down his own trousers, and John realized that he really was to be treated like a whore, his flesh exposed to the public, while Sherlock’s stayed safely clothed.

John rocked his body against the car, shameless, as the other man slipped on a condom. He penetrated John’s hole with a bare minimum of lubrication -- using just what he could get from the tip of John’s cock and the spit in his mouth -- and with a stark efficiency that bordered on cruel. The doctor cried out, loudly, prompting Sherlock to wrap one hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. The gesture pushed both of them into a rougher place, and they bucked against one another, sloppy and dirty and high on the fear of being caught, of being seen before they could finish, and then John came with a helpless noise, spilling all over the inside of Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock growled and fucked him harder, fucked him into the wet of his own cum and that thought, in and of itself, was enough to make Sherlock climax deep inside of John, finishing with his now-familiar shudder. When he came, he muffled his own cries by biting hard into the back of John’s neck.

Sherlock stayed there for a moment, before coming back to earth, before realizing it was fucking cold and time to go back inside. He pulled out, and kissed the base of John’s spine, slapping him lightly on the arse. “We should go, John.”

Sherlock threw the condom in the dumpster, and zipped up his trousers. John was a little more difficult to make presentable, but the cum that had landed on his shirt had, happily, managed to stay below the belt, so if he stayed tucked in, he’d be fine.

The Belstaff was a different story.

“That was…remarkable, Sherlock. The things you do…” John said, and then, with a sincere wave of regret: “Sorry about the coat.”

Sherlock picked it up and folded it in on itself. “Don’t worry. The dry cleaner may look at us a bit askance from now on, but no harm done.” He winked, and John smiled, and the two men walked towards the delivery door together.

John paused at the door. “How long have we been out there?”

“Not long. Maybe ten minutes? Fifteen, tops?”

John looked up at Sherlock. “Shit. They’re going to know, aren’t they?”

“Of course they will. And won’t that be fun?” asked Sherlock, with a wide, crooked smile as he ushered John back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> \- Curious about fingerprint analysis? Duke took down [the awesome interactive site](http://tip.duke.edu/independent_learning/cdrom_courses/clues_interactive.swf) \-- but in its place, here's [the U.S. Department of Justice's Sourcebook on Fingerprint Analysis](https://www.ncjrs.gov/pdffiles1/nij/225320.pdf)! 
> 
> \- [Victor’s suit](http://georgehahn.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/IMG_2444.jpg), by Indochino – it’s actually made of [Nanotech material](http://georgehahn.com/2013/04/05/a-look-at-the-nanotech-gray-twill-suit-from-indochino/) – how cool is that?  
> (Oh, and it should go without saying that this suit’s presence, fictionally, on Victor’s body in no way is meant to imply that the fine folks at Indochino are Victor’s clients, or in any way “cash-poor” in real life!)
> 
> \- [Sherlock’s bath towels](http://www.matouk.com/bath/bath-towels/bel-tempo.html). In grey, I think.
> 
> \- [Cigar Terrace at Dieci Restaurant](http://www.fluidnetwork.co.uk/gfx/venues/23769/dieci-photos-restaurant-marylebone-london-04.jpg)
> 
> \- [Dieci Restaurant dining room](http://www.fluidnetwork.co.uk/gfx/venues/23388/ten_lounge_restaurant_manchester_street_hotel_book_eating_01.jpg): FYI, Dieci is actually part of a hotel, but I decided against including that element in the story, mostly because if Sherlock and John were fucking outside a hotel, people would have noticed!
> 
> \- [The power of scent](http://psychology.about.com/od/memory/ss/ten-facts-about-memory_8.htm)!
> 
>  
> 
> I had a fantastic time working on this chapter, you guys, and I really hope you enjoy it, too! Don't forget to follow me on Tumblr for New Chapter Alerts and End Note Previews! <3 
> 
> vex.


	21. “A Very Dangerous Place”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner comes to an end with a text from Lestrade, and Sherlock and John return home after a long day…

 

As they approached the table, John’s gambit was to play it off, as if nothing at all untoward had transpired over the last twenty minutes or so, and he hoped that both Lily and Victor would have the style and class to let his and Sherlock’s concurrent  absence go unremarked.

“Jesus, you two!” Victor crowed, the minute they’d returned to the table, noting John’s hastily tucked shirt, the sheen of sweat along Sherlock’s forehead, and John’s mussed hair. “Dirty little sex assignment in the middle of dinner? Haven’t pulled that in a while. How did our boy do?”

Sherlock grinned. John went immediately crimson, even more so when Victor leaned back and discretely revealed an unopened packet of lube in his pocket. “Now you know why I started carrying these, “ he said, with a leer.

Lily rolled her eyes. “You guys are disgusting. Really? Can’t keep it in for a single meal?”

“He did fine.” Sherlock smiled, and draped a proprietary arm over his flatmate. Victor lifted an eyebrow. Sherlock returned it in kind.

 _Like a brother, my arse_ , thought John, but settled into the crook of Sherlock’s arm anyway. He wasn’t sure what kind of message this might be sending to Sherlock, but whether he was entitled to or not, John had been hurt by what he’d seen on the surveillance camera, and he wasn’t above getting a few digs in, especially if he were forced to suffer Lily’s continued presence as well.

Victor didn’t look particularly distressed at the moment, though, stretched casually as he was, leaning back into his chair. “You remember that night in Brugge, Sherlock, at that Hobbit place with ribs and the tiny little bathroom? The entire restaurant knew what we were doing in there…”

Sherlock smirked. “That’s because you were so fucking loud.”

Victor leaned over the table, laughing. “The waiter at the door, knocking with his litt—“

“Yeah, can we not do this, please?” John interrupted. “I realize you and Sherlock have been friends for a long time, but can we refrain from implying that everything done to me was done first and better by you two, to each other?”

“Don’t be silly, John,” Victor remarked, but was interrupted.

“No. NO.” John said, pointedly. “And for the record, we didn’t even fuck in the bathroom, so you know, you may be his Mentor, but he actually _is_ capable of independent thought.”

“He is right, Victor, I am quite capable of that. Which is why,” Sherlock said, finishing the last bite on his plate, “I think we should get back to our original topic of conversation.”

“In which I am murder suspect number one.” Lily said, with a faint smile of amusement on her face. “I’m disappointed in your genius detective, Victor. Not much of either, is he?”

“Dunno, Lil. He did find the gun. That’s more than your lot was able to do.”

“Yes, let’s talk about the gun.” Sherlock started. “So, Lily shoots her mother—“

“Wrong.” Lily bulldozed.

“Okay, _someone_ did shoot Mel, with that gun, will you allow that?” Sherlock exhaled, impatient.

She relented. “Fine.”

“So, the shot is fired and the gun has prints on it – yours, Lil, and yours, Victor. That much we know. How did your prints get on the murder weapon?”

The waiter chose that precise moment to approach, and so they paused, ordered dessert and coffee, conversation ceasing as menus were reviewed and collected. At the waiter’s departure, conversation resumed.

This time, it was Victor who picked up the thread. “Look, let’s go back to the beginning.” He turned to Sherlock. “You already sorted that I broke into Fulvia’s safe, stole the money…”

“…and stole a gun. Chad’s gun. The gun, the murder weapon. Obvious.” Sherlock said, finishing the sentence for him, hurrying him along.

“Precisely.” Victor said, with a little hint of pride in his tone. “Didn’t know you knew that.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you steal the gun, Victor?”

Victor shrugged. “The same reason I stole the Jack. Because I could.”

“Bullshit.” Lily said, turning on him. “He stole it because he was afraid that Chad would use it on me or Mum.”

“And why would he do that, Lily?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed again.

“Because of the blackmail.” Her voice went quiet and small. “Teddy told you about all of that?”

John piped up. “Yeah, but he didn’t tell us what exactly it was that he had on her.”

“Yeah, that’s because none of us know.” said Victor. “She never told anyone. Went to her grave with it.”

“We were afraid that eventually, he’d get desperate enough to use the gun, once the money ran out.” Lily explained. “So Victor thought he’d get a jump on Chad and steal it outright, make it a little more difficult for him to, you know, murder us in our sleep.”

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. “But why would he do that? Blackmailers don’t kill their cash cows.”

“They do when the cow runs out of cash and they don’t want to leave loose ends.” Lily said, bitterly.

John eyed Lily, curiously. “What I don’t understand is why you all just didn’t turn him in to the police. You knew he wasn’t dead. He was blackmailing you, seems like you could kill two birds with one stone.”

“Mel wouldn’t allow it.” Victor said. “Whatever he was blackmailing her with was some strong shit, I guess…”

“…plus there was the fact that if we’d admitted to knowing he wasn’t actually dead, we’d get in trouble. We might’ve had to give back the insurance money, which had already gone to Chad for the most part…it was all tangled up,” Lily added. Her hand reached for Victor’s, and John reflexively bit the inside of his cheek.

The waiter arrived with coffee and dessert, and once again, the conversation was put on hold, only to begin again when he’d left. 

Sherlock added sugar to his coffee and then turned to Victor. “So, you stole the gun, and you touched the gun with your fingers, when? During the robbery?”

“I had gloves on during the robbery, but yeah, I touched it with my bare hands once we got it back to Mel’s.  I mean, Finder’s Keepers, right? I figured it was our gun now. That’s when Lily touched it, too.”

“Except,” Lily broke in. “Three days later, Mum’s house was robbed. They took the TV, a laptop, some jewelry and the gun.”

Sherlock reached a fork across the table, and stole a bite of Victor’s semifreddo. Victor, of course, protested and got a moderately painful fork in the hand for it. “Ever been broken into before?”

“Never,” said Lily. “I mean, at the time, I’d wondered if it might have been Chad, but considering what had been taken, it really could have been anyone.”

John took a sip of coffee. “But now you think it was him?”

“He had the gun at the hotel, John.” She nodded her head in Victor’s direction. “He watched him shoot my mother with it. Chad had to have gotten it from somewhere.”

She shivered, her face suddenly stricken. She pulled her scarf close around her, and John watched Sherlock watch her, with sudden interest. “Sorry,” she said. “This is still about my mother’s death. With the investigation, I haven’t exactly been able to process it. Please forgive me.”

“Of course.” John said, quietly. At the end of the day, she was a girl who had lost her Mum, even if she was still a suspect. He felt a momentary pang of sympathy.

Sherlock wasn’t so easily swayed. “So, the gun is gone. When is the next time you see it?”

“In Chad’s hands,” Victor says, “in the hotel hallway. He shot her, threw it on the ground and took off. I recognized it – it’s got that custom grip, you know – and I knew our prints were on it and I…panicked. I picked it up and stashed it in the ice machine, with every intention to return and grab it.”

“But I wouldn’t let him.” Lily said. “I was afraid if he returned to the scene of the crime that…”

“…that I would get arrested, and but then Teddy...”

“Teddy has this friend, Phil, someone we could trust, who lives in that part of town,” Lily explained. “Teddy thought his friend could slip in unnoticed and get the gun.”

 “At first, there were too many police around to sneak it, but once their tape came down, Phil went to the hotel and poked around in the ice. He couldn’t find it, so naturally…”

“…naturally, we assumed The Met had gotten to it first.”

Victor took another bite of his dessert. “But when I visited your DI this morning – and Christ, Sherlock, he looked familiar to me, I swear. You sure we didn’t know him back in the day? Anyway, he didn’t seem to have any evidence, so when I realized the gun really wasn’t in that ice machine anymore, you were the first person I thought of.”

“And so, naturally, you planned a theft of our home?” John cocked his head to the side, curious to hear how he’d defend himself from this one.

“About that, John,” Victor leaned in. “How _did_ you two know about our plans?”

 

*****

 

Lestrade had been looking forward to going home, having a few beers, maybe turning in a little early. It had been a rough day. He’d only been able to plow through a third of the case files stacked along his desk, Sally had been a right prick about completing her paperwork on the attempted shooting in Clapton, and Anderson would not shut UP about the Sherlock’s involvement in the Wilson murder, considering his connection to the witness.

He’d then segued into bitching about the fact that Wilson had been released, and Greg had been just irritated enough to fire off a few well-aimed barbs in Anderson’s direction – most specifically, the fact that if Anderson and his team had actually found a single hair’s worth of evidence linking Chad Wilson to the crime scene, the bloody perp wouldn’t have been released in the bloody first place! That’s when he’d grabbed his jacket and packed up to go home. He would regret being so short with Anderson – the man had a delicate nature and was easily thrown by criticism – so it was best if Lestrade left before he could do inflict anymore damage, and apologize in the morning.

It was just after eight when he approached the lifts. He pressed the button, and waited. The bell signaled the car’s arrival on the floor, and when the doors opened they revealed a nervous-looking young man. The young man and Lestrade exchanged places, and as the door started to slide closed, he could see the man looking quizzically up one corridor and down the next. _Dammit…_

Greg put his hand to the door, bracing it open, and leaned out. “Can I help you?”

The boy looked scared. “I-I’m looking for Detective Inspector Lestrade?” He said the name as if he’d memorized it.

Lestrade stepped out of the lift with a heavy sigh and pressed the ‘doors shut’ button on his way out, sending the lift off without him. “That’s me, son. What can I help you with?”

The boy ran a hand through his hair. “It’s about my boss, Fulvia White. I think she’s missing, and I think she’s in danger.”

 

 

****

“How did we know you’d try to break-in?” Sherlock shrugged. “First off, Victor, it’s what you do, albeit appallingly. Secondly, though, it’s common sense. One piece of evidence links the two of you to murder, it makes sense to get rid of it, if you can.”

“That’s what I told him,” Lily said, proudly.

“Clever girl, said Sherlock.

John stood, with a sigh, “I don’t have the patience for this waiter. I’m going to the bar for a drink – anyone else?”

“I’d go, but considering my status as a suspect, I’m not sure I’m to be trusted.” Victor grumbled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John’s bodycount may have begun in Afghanistan, but it hasn’t ended there. He can take care of himself, even in the company of the likes of you.”

So, John and Victor walked to the Cigar Terrace together. Just twelve hours ago, their hands would’ve been interlaced and the taste of Victor would’ve been fresh on John’s lips. A couple of fingerprints and ten minutes of hidden camera footage later and everything was different.

“Do…you trust her?” John asked, as they watched the bartender mix their drinks.

“Lily, or the bartender?”

“Shut it…”

Victor nodded, once. “Yeah, alright. Sure I do.”

“No, I mean really.” John cautioned. “She could be playing you, mate. If she’s really the one responsible for her mother’s death…”

“Johnny, I trust her.” Victor bought a cigar from the woman behind the bar, and tilted his head to John, invitingly, but the doctor passed. Victor shrugged and chose one from the humidor and handed it to the bartender, who expertly stripped it from its wrapper, clipped the end, and placed it on a crisp white plate. It was a little like surgery, mused John, her precise movements, the vaguely terrifying instruments, the setting up of the workspace. When Victor picked it up from the plate, she lit a non-sulfur match and held it to the tip. Clouds of poisonous-smelling smoke enveloped them, causing John to cough.

“That’s…utterly foul, Victor.” John said, waving the air around him.

“Aww, relax and live a little...” Victor scolded, clenching the cigar between his teeth and smiling. He looked beyond mad in that moment, but also singularly endearing. If it was true that Sherlock was a perpetual child, then Victor was a perpetual teenager, the eager rebel, the impossible smartarse, guided by the singular pursuit of fun. His chaos was not calculated, it was impetuous and clumsy – but in spite of everything, John still hoped it came from a good and well-intentioned place. He thought of the look in his eyes when Lily had arrived at the restaurant, his hissed threat when he thought she’d been hurt, and he thought of the kind way he’d stroked her hair in the surveillance video.

“You love her.” John said, without hesitation.

Victor paused, and released a low roll of smoke. “Yes,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel just as—“

“Stop, don’t. Just, no.” said John, hand up, preventing him from saying another word. “Look, Victor, you might not realize this, but you manipulated me. Us. Me.”

“I did not!” Victor protested.

“Yeah, you did,” John said, with a disbelieving shake of his head.

“No I didn’t! Did I contact Sherlock because I hoped he’d help us? Damn straight. Did I fuck him because of that? Hell no. Did I fuck you because of it? Hell fucking no. What we did, the three of us, the two of us, that had nothing to do the Wilsons.” Victor drank down a shot of Jack. “Don’t believe me? Try me.”

“What do you mean, ‘try me’?”

“Sherlock’s busy, Lily’s occupied, we’re alone.” Victor gave him his most charming smile, and ordered up a shot of vodka for John. When the bartender turned away to get the bottle, he lowered his voice. “Come on, there’s not man in the world that can fake arousal. If I don’t feel what I feel for you, could I do this?”

He pulled John’s hand and placed it over his cock, as discreetly as one could, hidden beneath the bar ledge.

John pulled his hand away. “You’re a murder suspect.”

“ _Suspect_. Haven’t been arrested, have I?”

“By the grace of Sherlock – and only Sherlock, and only for now!” John was incredulous. “Besides, Lily is in the next room!”

“Lily has nothing to do with us.”

John was running out of objections, not that they were helping diffuse the situation with Victor. “No,” he said, simply.

“Because of Sherlock? Has he told you he loved you yet?” Victor emitted another cloud of smoke. “Because that would be a first.”

“What are you…?” The smoke was cloying. John cleared his throat. “Are you saying he’s never…?”

“No,” said Victor, tapping out the ash. “He’s never said it. Not to Alex, not to anyone.”

“Not even to you?”

“Not to anyone.” Victor said, with a resigned sigh. “He loves drugs, he loves crime scenes – he’ll admit to loving me, but never without the words _as a friend_ tacked on at the end – but he’s never said ‘I love you’ to any living human, not that I know of, anyway.”

John picked at the end of the bar napkin, nonchalantly. “Hardly matters. We’re miles away from that, anyway.”

Victor eyed him fiercely. “He might be, but you’re not. Miles away? More like inches.”

“I’m not! I’m the reasonable one!” John insisted.

“Yeah, okay,” smiled Victor, knowingly. “I just want you to be happy, John -- and I’m still pulling for you two, I am. That’s why I don’t want you to be discouraged if he never says it.”

 

****

“So, clever girl,” Sherlock crooned. “We’re finally alone.”

She shot him a knowing look. “You really are like Victor, aren’t you? Two of a kind…”

“We’ve got similar tastes. The similarities end rather abruptly, though.” He finished off his espresso. “For starters, _I’m_ not a murderer.”

She sipped her coffee without so much as a flutter of her eyelashes.

Sherlock continued, his voice shifting slightly, becoming softer, more casual, conspiratorial, even. “Let’s tell the truth, Lil, all cards on the table. You don’t think he did it, but you’re not entirely certain, are you? I mean, after all, you weren’t actually in that hallway, were you?”

He angled his body towards he, copying her posture. “Truth is, you’re only taking his word for it, aren’t you? Must be terrifying. I’ve never cared for anyone enough to put myself in that kind of position, but I can imagine.”

She rubbed her arms, and the silver-threaded scarf fell to her elbows.

“I can imagine, too, how it must be killing you not to be able to talk about this with anyone. I suspect he’s sworn you to secrecy? It’s what I would do, if I’d murdered someone.”

Lily changed her posture, frowning. “Does this ‘gossipy girlfriend’ routine ever really work for you? It’s unbecoming, honestly. Kind of sexist, too.”  She shook her head, knowingly. “I guess John’s doing a butcher version of the same thing to Victor right now, trying to get him to roll over on me, hmm?”

“That was the plan.” Sherlock, snapping back into his regular, vaguely bored, self. He reached over and claimed Victor’s dessert plate, licking the whipped cream from his fingers. “God, that’s good. You want to split it?”

She shook her head.

“More for me, then.” Sherlock smiled. “Now, before they return, and just between you, me and the semifreddo…tell the truth: Victor did do it, didn’t he?”

She reached into her purse, and pulled out a small tube of lipstick. “Oh, Sherlock. Victor didn’t do it, and neither did I.” She applied the pink lippy, checking her reflection in its mirrored cap, with great satisfaction. “She’s my mother, why would either of us want to kill her? Neither of us have a motive. The only person with any sort of motive here is Chad.”

Victor and John returned to the table at that moment, with drinks and smelling of cigar smoke. Sherlock didn’t fail to notice the slight thaw between Victor and John, and John didn’t fail to notice that Lily seemed extraordinarily pleased with herself.

The only thing Victor noticed was that Sherlock had commandeered his desert. “Some things never fucking change…”

“ _I_ can bear the extra calories, Victor.”

“Don’t be a shit,” said Victor, sucking in what little belly he had.

Sherlock smiled, and ran a finger along the plate. “We’ve been talking,” he said, indicating himself and Lily.

“So have we,” nodded Victor. John caught his eye and delivered an almost imperceptible nod.

Sherlock continued. “Bottom line, the fingerprint evidence gets us no closer to a definite suspect than we were before it. So, for the time being, let’s agree to work together until we can’t,” he said. “Let’s work under the assumption of Chad’s guilt, but we’re going to need your help. Can we count on you?”

Sherlock’s phone trilled before anyone could say anything. He picked it up, and lifted his chin, with a sudden smile. He turned the screen John’s way.

**New Evidence on Wilson case. Come to NSY ASAP. GL**

“Dinner’s over, I’m afraid,” said Sherlock, standing up. “Thanks for an interesting evening…we’ll be in touch.”

 

****

The three men stood looking out the glass-paned wall that bordered the interrogation room.

“His name’s Jeremy, a neighborhood kid, he’s worked for this woman, this Fulvia for a little under a year.” Lestrade explained. “He claims he saw my card in his boss’ hand earlier today, so when all this went down, he thought I’d be the best person to contact. Seems like a good kid.”

In the other room, an officer entered and handed the boy a bottle of water. The kid stood to accept it, and after a quick verbal exchange, she left.

“He’s a _tough_ kid, I’ll give him that,” mused Sherlock, inexplicably. “Shall we?”

Lestrade led the way and performed the necessary introductions. The boy was no more than 19, from the looks of him, and his year as Fulvia’s runner had given his arms definition and his thighs a natural sturdiness. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved flannel button-down, fuzzy with age, over a dingy long-sleeved t-shirt. He was shy, and deferential to the DI, and stood politely to shake both Sherlock and John’s hands.

The conversation started with Lestrade. “Jeremy, if you would be kind enough to tell these gentlemen the same story you told me?”

He licked his lips nervously. “Yeah, umm, the pub I work at, it’s owned by this lady, Fulvia. Not a bad sort. Drinks a little too much, but show me a pub owner that doesn’t.” He looked up long enough to gauge their reactions. Sherlock cut his eyes to the ceiling, but John gave him an encouraging smile. He smiled back. “Anyway, this regular bloke, kind of a blowhard –“

“Chad Wilson, you probably know him as Louis Lloyd?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Yeah, that’s him. He shows up today after lunch, out in the alley, and tells me to disappear, tells me to leave and never come back.”

Sherlock sat back and lifted his chin. “That’s not all he did, though, did he?”

“What? Look, I’m just here to tell you what I saw.”

“I’d rather you tell me how you feel.” Sherlock said, breezily. “Can’t be great, considering that right now, I suspect you’re suffering from a slight concussion, that you’ve got two, no, three broken ribs, a fresh cigarette burn on the inside of your right arm and a laceration on your shoulder that’s in need of a stitch or seven.”

Jeremy was incredulous. “How did you…?”

“You winced earlier, when you stood to accept the water from the officer. Once you received the bottle, rather than opening it, and in spite of your obvious thirst -- cracked lips, raspy voice, it’s all there if you take the time to look  -- you immediately pressed the cold bottle to the inside of your arm, right about…here.”

Sherlock snaked a finger along the inside of the boys cuff and slowly, gently pushed the material up to reveal exactly the wound Sherlock had described. Laid bare, the boy yanked his sleeve back down with embarrassment.

Sherlock continued “As for your laceration, with its rather hastily-applied bandage – upper left shoulder --  that was an easy deduction. You’re bleeding through your shirt. Doctor?”

He turned to John, who, in turn, looked to Lestrade, for the go-ahead to treat. With a nod, Lestrade buzzed the outside office for medical supplies, and John stepped in, seeing to the young man’s injuries as he continued talking to Sherlock.

“How’d you know about the knock to the head? Do I have a cut or a knot of something?” Jeremy asked, feeling the back of his head.

“Let’s call it a hunch. Finish your story.”

 “Okay, so he roughed me up, ” Jeremy said, “and then he went inside, roughed up Fulvia, too, broke her nose, even, and there was a lot of blood. By the time I got back inside the bar, she was sitting up on the floor, trying to stop the bleeding, and Lloyd was long gone.”

“Hunch confirmed... you would’ve been there to protect Fulvia if you possibly could have – given your single mother, your abusive father – haircut like that, it’s obvious, really. So, you had to have been knocked out, at least for a short time.” Sherlock flickered his gaze over to John, and was rewarded with a patented look of admiration.

Jeremy seemed a bit dazed.

“Such a show-off, “ Lestrade griped. “What happened next, son?”

“She just…disappeared. She sent me upstairs to clean up, and when I came down, the bar was open but she was nowhere to be seen.”

John shrugged. “You said this happened this afternoon? It might not be anything serious. Maybe she went shopping. Maybe she met someone. Maybe she went to stay with relatives – she’s an adult, anything could’ve happened!”

Jeremy nodded. “I would think so, too, if it hadn’t been for Lloyd.”

“Why?” asked Sherlock. “What’s so special about Lloyd?”

The boy’s eyes fluttered. “Friday last, just before dinner service, I saw Mr. Lloyd in the alleyway, but he didn’t see me.”

“What was he doing, Jeremy?” Sherlock leaned forward.

 “He was washing his hands, in the outdoor spigot.”

John paused his ministrations. “Washing his hands? Why?”

“They…were covered in blood, Sir.”

 

 

****

Lestrade walked out with Sherlock and John, after Jeremy’s testimony had been sorted.

“Would’ve been nice if the lad had come to see us _before_ we let Wilson walk this afternoon.” Lestrade said. “Still wouldn’t have been enough to keep him here with an alibi. Your Yank said you were chasing something this morning. Any luck? Some physical evidence would come in handy.”

John’s eyes slid to Sherlock’s, and Sherlock breezily ignored him. “Dead end, I’m afraid. But we’re on the case.”

“I’m sending a unit out to cover Jeremy, as well as Lily and the Yank, just in case. If it is Wilson, I don’t want him to get rough again.”

“And Fulvia?” John asked.

Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets as they pushed through the doors to the outside. “We’ve got her details. We can start investigating 48 hours after her disappearance. Until then, our hands are tied.”

“Yeah, here’s hoping she shows up before then.” John murmured and raised his hand for a taxi. They said goodbye, and entered the car.

 In the cab, John was emphatic. “I have to say, you were right. I doubted you, I doubted Victor, and I definitely doubted Lily, but I’d say this comfortably points us to Chad!”

Sherlock nodded, tightly. “We just need actual physical evidence.”

“Greg said they were sending Anderson to the pub to see if there was any blood traces left on the spigot. If he finds some, and if it’s Mel’s…”

“That would be brilliant,” Sherlock agreed. “But we can’t count on it.”

“I feel terrible about Fulvia…”

“We were remiss, yes, we should’ve called. But there’s nothing to be solved by us fretting about it now.” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. “Lestrade’s got it well in hand if she doesn’t surface. In the meantime, for us, sleep, then tomorrow we go back to Player’s Club East, see what we can dig up before they open. Find out what we can about Chad Wilson.”

John agreed, and they settled subtly against one another, not in each other’s arms, no, but a general comfortable lean. John could feel Sherlock relax, his posture suddenly casual. They watched London pass by, traffic surprisingly thick for a Tuesday night.

“Sherlock?” John asked, eyes on the window, hands draped on his legs.

“Yeah?”

 “What exactly would it mean to be ‘yours’?”

Sherlock shifted, turning his attention from the world outside the cab to the world inside it. “It means I protect you, I care for you, and I control you inasmuch as is reasonable and still keeps you a whole and capable person when you’re outside my sphere.”

John considered this. It sounded rehearsed, as if he were reciting a legal statute. “That’s not the first time you’ve said that, is it?”

Sherlock paled, paused. “N-no. I’ve said it out loud to exactly one person, once before. You know.”

“Alex.” John said, knowing he couldn’t.

Sherlock nodded. “Not that he stayed mine for very long.”

“Do you miss him?” John ventured. “Did you…love him?”

“No,” came Sherlock’s ready answer, followed by a more hesitant one. “And…no.”

They rode home the rest of the way in silence.

 

 

****

The lights were still dark in Mrs. Hudson’s flat -- she wouldn’t be home until the end of the week – when Sherlock and John climbed the stairs to 221B. It had been a long and emotionally exciting day, but to John, even the idea of sleep was fraught with uncertainty – would he sleep in his own room? In Sherlock’s? What were the implications there? If he slept in Sherlock’s did that means he was accepting  Sherlock’s “claim” on him? His thoughts swam in this generally frantic direction as he opened the door to the sitting room.

The first thing John noticed was that the television was on, and tuned to football.

The first thing Sherlock noticed was the smell of his particular brand of cigarettes, permeating the room in a way that John never permitted.

The next thing they both noticed, however, was that a figure was sitting in Sherlock’s chair, and was toasting their entrance with a half-empty bottle of John’s beer.

They looked at one another, and then looked back at the figure.

“About time you got here, I was worried! You never know when something terrible might happen.” Chad Wilson leered. “After all, London’s a very dangerous place, innit?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> Ooh, that Chad’s a baddie, isn’t he? Can’t wait to see what happens next chapter!
> 
> In the meantime, amuse yourself with some links:
> 
>  
> 
> \- “…the Hobbit place…” that Victor mentioned is a [real place](http://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g188671-d1216584-Reviews-Restaurant_Grill_de_Hobbit-Bruges_West_Flanders_Province.html), and I want to go there!
> 
> \- [The gun](https://www.army.mod.uk/equipment/23797.aspx) that was used in Melinda’s murder, with the [identifiable grip](http://images1.opticsplanet.com/365-240-ffffff/opplanet-pachmayr-grip-glove-glock-05164.jpg) (couldn’t find a pic, but imagine this grip in white)
> 
> \- [Proper cigar service](http://www.mastersommeliers.org/Resources/Documents/2012%20MS%20CMS%20Service%20Standards.pdf) is just part of a Sommelier’s job.
> 
> \- The low-down on [Missing Persons reporting](https://www.gov.uk/report-missing-person) in the UK.
> 
>  
> 
> Observant readers may have noticed that this fic no longer has a "?" in the Chapter notation. Yes, friends, we are winding down, with nine chapters left to go until the end of this story*. My initial hope was to finish up before 221B Con, but that may be a tad unrealistic now. I'm very exited about the remaining chapters, though, and the arc of the story -- hope you will stay with us through to the end!
> 
> ‘Til next time, y'all!  
> vex.
> 
> *of course, this is subject to revision. Because I'm slippery like that...(hey, you never know when you'll need an extra, unanticipated all-porn chapter!)


	22. "A Well-Tailored Suit"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have a sit-down with Chad Wilson and then have a sit-down with one another.

 

John Watson had had it about up to here with people showing up in their flat unannounced, drinking his beer, and generally acting like they owned the place.

At least this time the intruder had nicked something of Sherlock’s, for once -- and speaking of Sherlock, it was around this time that John realized Sherlock didn’t look nearly as surprised by the intruder’s presence as he should have.

“No need to worry about us, we were safe as kittens – we were at The Yard, in fact, Mr. Wilson.” Sherlock said, his polite voice turning snarky. “Or do your prefer Mr. Lloyd now?”

The man in the chair returned the snarky tone and muted the sound of the Millwall game with the remote. “It’s Lloyd, you ponce.” He eyed the pair suspiciously. “Surprised to get your summons. For future reference, I’d prefer it have been delivered by someone who smelled a great deal _less_ of piss.”

“Summons?” John said, turning his head sharply toward Sherlock’s. “Did you bring him here? To our house?”

“’Our house’ – you live together, then?” Louis said, with a grin. “Knew you two weren’t actual police, but I didn’t know I’d been invited by a pair of knob jockeys.”

John bit the inside of his cheek, trying to resist the urge to bark out a denial. Instead, he turned to Sherlock, brows still arched and waiting for an answer to his question.

“Yes, I invited him, sent him a message through The Network,” Sherlock said, under his breath. “Mohammed and mountains, John. Saves us a trip to the club.”

“Little heads up would’ve been nice.” John murmured.

Sherlock murmured back. “Didn’t think he’d accept.” The detective turned to face the late Chad Wilson, eyes dipping to his hands and his boots as he reached to extended his welcome. Sherlock turned on his best and broadest fake smile. “I do want to thank you for coming at such short notice, Mr. Lloyd, I’m pleased to see that in our absence, you availed yourself of refreshments and cleverly located my not-so-cleverly hidden cigarette stash.”

“No problem, mate.” Louis said pleasantly, “Now, before we start, I should let you know that I’m not completely gormless. I know you’re friends with that arsehole Victor, Melinda’s druggy pervert Yank. If you record this without telling me, it is completely inadmissible in court. Also, you should know that I’ve let my attorney, and a number of my less civilized associates know about this meeting, so if anything unfortunate were to happen to me, you’d have to answer to them. The only reason I’m here is to get you lot off my arse.”

“Completely reasonable.” Sherlock pulled the client chair out from behind the desk and pushed it into place between his and John’s chair. “If I could, Mr. Lloyd?” he said, indicating the chair.

“Oh, you want me to move?”

“Please.”

“But this one’s more comfortable.”

“Clearly. But all the same, this is where the…innocent people sit.”

Wilson shot Sherlock a quizzical look. “Innocent people?”

“Yes.”

“You think I’m innocent? Already? Well, that was easy.” Lloyd asked, with an unbelieving laugh.

“I think so, anyway.” Sherlock said, relishing catching the bugger off-guard. “Once I hear your story, things will be clearer, certainly, but at this moment I think there’s a rather good chance that you are. Sit.”

Lloyd thought about it for a moment, his face guarded, but he slowly acquiesced, standing up and moving into the client chair. Sherlock settled into his proper place and nodded to John, who sat down with a bewildered look on his face.

 

 

*****

“Right then. I will tell you my story, and by the end of it, you’ll understand why I wouldn’t have been the one to kill Melinda last Friday night. If we can get to an understanding on that point, with no aggro, gents, I will then be happy to share my insights on who I think really done the deed, yeah? Okay, so: Melly and I got married in 1992. She was lovely back then – I mean, ran with a dodgy crowd, tattoos, crazy haircuts, but still a looker, know what I mean? Maybe not, considering you’re poofs, but trust me, she was fit.”

“Yeah, alright, Mr. Lloyd, can we push this along?” asked John, impatiently.

“Don’t rush me, princess,” warned Lloyd, with a condescending grin. “You’ll miss all the good parts.” He turned to Sherlock. “So, I was saying, Melly. Her father was rich, left her a trust fund, even so we were set. A year later, Lily came along. I got a job as a manager at this import company, got to see all of Southeast Asia through a hotel window, and for a good long while, it was the dog’s.”

“Funny thing is, it was the dogs – actual dogs – that got me in the end. Years go by, I start betting on the greyhounds and what do ya know, I rack up a shitload of debt. Melly’s trust fund was still locked up, so there was no point in telling her about it. Eventually, Lambeth’s men approached me with an offer. I mean, they were going to cut me for the money I owed them, I wasn’t exactly going to say no, was I? So, I dropped a package on my next business trip and my debt was erased. Picked up another one on my way back and got a pay out. Easy-peasy. Clean-like. Legitimate businessman on a legitimate business trip, who’s gonna question it? No one, that’s who. Well, no one except Melly.”

“She found the drugs?” asked Sherlock.

“No, found the money in a box at the back of the closet, immediately put one and one together and totally lost it.  Said it was either her and Lily or the drugs and I chose the drugs, of course, because, let’s face it,  it’s not like Mel and Lil were paying me 3,000 quid a trip to shuffle boxes, am I right? So we got divorced in 2003.”

“Did you love her?” John asked.

“He really is the girl, isn’t he?” Lloyd laughed, turning to Sherlock again. “Course, you’re taller, deeper voice, makes sense you’re the man.”

“You know, I find your fascination with our personal lives rather telling, Mr. Lloyd.” John barked. “Are you trying to tell us something? After all, you’ve got one -- no, two failed marriages under your belt, isn’t that right?”

“John...” Sherlock scolded, while his flatmate seethed. “But that does segue nicely into my next question. When did you meet Ms. White?”

Lloyd scratched his chin and took another swig of his beer. “I met Fulvia in a bar a few months later – not her bar, she didn’t buy that dive ‘til after we divorced. Anyway, she liked the flash of cash, the nice cars, the perks of the business, so she didn’t mind the drugs. Of course, she’d done time at Holloway, so she was hardly a blushing flower. In fact, she was the one who figured out how we could make even more, skimming product off the top before making the deliveries. _Lambeth will never know_ , she said. _It’s a gram here and a gram there, no one will notice_ , she said. She’d package it up and sell it locally.”

“How?” John asked. 

“She had connections. Crew she knew from when she was younger. Ended up being close to 90% profit, so can you blame us?”

“But something went wrong?”

“Of course there was a cock up. Took too much off the top of the wrong order and Lambeth found out. Put a price on my head, a big one.”

John knew the name Lambeth. Every English boy of a certain age knew that name, even if they’d grown up far away from the East End. You didn’t fuck with the Lambeth Boys, not unless you wanted to be cut in a series of increasingly gruesome and damning ways. The way they disfigured you announced your crime, telling the world exactly what it was that you did to cross the gangster, and John could only imagine what they would have done to Lloyd. He nodded, grimly. “That’s when you decided to disappear?”

Lloyd nodded. “What else could we do? Fulvia agreed to divorce me, just so they wouldn’t go after her when I left. Her connections helped me go underground and presto, change-o, goodbye Chad, and hello Louis!”

“Must’ve been hard.”

“Easier than being carved up like Sunday dinner. But all that is in the past. That’s kind of the point. Me and Melly? It’s ancient history. We got divorced a lifetime ago, we haven’t spoken since I disappeared and I’ve got no bone to pick with her. Let’s face it, boys, if I was to murder any of my exes, it would be Fulvia, am I right or am I right?” Lloyd gave a loud laugh, and slapped John on the shoulder, roughly. “After all, she was the one with the bright idea to cheat Lambeth.”

Lloyd finished off the rest of his beer, and turned serious. “This murder business is putting my life in danger. If people find out that Chad Wilson is back in town, well -- Lambeth’s not exactly going to hug me tight and say all’s forgiven is he? And I like being Louis – the view from my window may no longer be the world, but nonstop tits and arse isn’t so bad. And for the boss, sometimes it’s more than just a view, if you know what I mean…”

John grimaced. The man was repellent. “So, that’s everything?”

“That’s everything.” Lloyd said. “Bottom line, I had no motive. In fact, if anything, I had more motive to keep my nose as clean as possible. I have an alibi – rozzers already know I was scouting talent outside the City. I know you two went to see Fulvia this afternoon, second time in two days, if I’m not mistaken, and it’s drawing attention. So, now that you know all there is to know, can you lot bloody well stop sniffing me out and let dear old Chad Wilson rest in peace?”

 

 

***** 

“Well, that’s quite a story, Mr. Lloyd,” said John, when it became apparent that Sherlock wasn’t going to comment. For the entire last half of Lloyd’s story, Sherlock had been engrossed in his phone, pressing buttons and scanning – what? The internet, presumably? – leaving John to do all the listening and nodding. _And_ the asking of follow-up questions, it appeared, as well. “Are you sure Lambeth doesn’t already know you’re back?”

“Hope not. Hoping all this will die down. I can sort out the fraud charge, and if I can keep it quiet, he might never know.”

“Why did you stay in London?” John asked, genuinely curious. “Louis Lloyd could’ve gone anywhere.”

“But anywhere didn’t have Fulvia.” He smiled. “She is the love of my life, you know, not Melly. Do anything for her. Even after all we’ve been through.”

“Ah, right, Fulvia.” Sherlock said, finally lifting his head from his phone. “How _is_ Fulvia doing? Is she well? Heard she had a bit of bad luck today.”

The man’s expression faltered, ever so slightly, and there was a moment too long’s hesitation before he answered. “Did she? We’ve not spoken today. Spent most of the day in the nick, you know. What-what happened?”

“Not sure, not important.” Sherlock said, and delved back into his phone.

John shot him an annoyed glance, which, of course, he did not see. John cleared his throat. Loudly. “There’s been some suggestion, in some circles, that Melinda was being blackmailed. Would you know anything about that, Mr. Lloyd?”

“Blackmailed?” he asked, again with a slight faltering of expression. “No idea. What’d she done worthy of blackmail? The Melly I knew was good as gold. No dirty secrets there. Of course I haven’t seen her since I became Lloyd.”

John’s expression narrowed. “Did you kill Melinda Wilson, Mr. Lloyd?”

He rolled his eyes. “Have you been listening to a word I said? No. I didn’t kill her.”

“Who do you think did it, then?”

He relaxed, crossing his legs at the knee. “That’s easy, innit? My darling daughter, probably, for her chunk of the trust fund, maybe for the insurance. Kills me to say that, you can imagine, but if not her, it might’ve been her degenerate boyfriend – that Teddy, something.”

“Teddy James? No, he’s Melinda’s boyfriend.” John corrected.

“No, he’s Lily’s man.” Lloyd countered. “I saw them once, snuggling up on one another at Fulvia’s. He’s up to his eyeballs in debt, according to Fulvia. I can see him convincing Lil to shoot Melly for her money.”

“Did you know that the murder weapon has been identified as your gun, Mr. Lloyd?”

Lloyd’s expression turned smarmy. “I don’t own a gun anymore, smartarse. The one I had was stolen in a robbery, months ago, haven’t seen it since. Fulvia even called the police to report the break in. Check the files.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Lloyd.” Sherlock resurfaced again, putting the phone down. “You are innocent of this crime, although clearly guilty of countless others.”

“Ah, glad you’re back with us, Sherlock.” John said. “How do you figure?”

“Think I’d like one of my cigarettes, first,” he said, and flashed a wink to John. John just threw his hands up and fell back into his chair. “Mr. Lloyd, would you have a light, by any chance?”

Lloyd leaned forward and tossed Sherlock a book of matches from his pocket. Sherlock caught it and struck a match. He lit his cigarette, and the dead match joined three other dead matches in a nearby ashtray. He looked meditatively at the cover of the matchbook, and smiled, reading “Cathay Garden, that’s in Merseyside, isn’t it?”

Lloyd looked up, paused for a moment and shrugged. “Dunno. Never been there. Must’ve picked it from somewhere.” He snatched the matches back and put them back into his pocket.

“Yes, I suspect you picked it up at Cathay Garden, at lunch on Friday, in Merseyside.”

“Yeah, except I wasn’t in Merseyside.”

“You sure you don’t want to amend that statement, Mr. Lloyd?” Sherlock was immediately razor-sharp. “Let’s start with your boots, shall we? Interesting fact: geologically, Merseyside is a bit of a curiosity, chock full of Carboniferous Coal Measures rocks, Triassic and Permian age sandstones and mudstones, widespread glacial till, it’s a bit of a geologist’s wet dream, really – as is, coincidentally, the bottoms of your boots, at present.”

Lloyd lifted his foot and saw the silt and rocks wedged into the tread of his shoes.

Sherlock snorted. “Next time, you take part in a murder, Mr. Lloyd, you might want to tidy up a bit.”

“Murder? Jesus, I told you, I didn’t kill Mel!”

“I’m not talking about Melinda.” Sherlock explained, and lifted his phone. “Saturday morning, the body of a local gangster named Albert Goins was found near the Lancashire coal field. Tripping your memory at all, Louis?”

Louis Lloyd’s mouth fell open, becoming immediately defensive. “If you’re basing a formal accusation on nothing more than matches and dust, my son, you’re going to have a bitch of a fight.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Lloyd, there’s more to my deduction.” Sherlock smiled. “Shall we talk about that nasty cut on your hand? Healing up a bit by now, probably should’ve had a stitch or two, three inches in length, which is coincidentally the same width of the cuts found on Albert Goins body. Must’ve been a bit of a struggle getting Goins to go down, even with help, he was a big boy, after all, and I suspect your hand got in the way. Must’ve bled like a bitch. But they weren’t about to stop and clean you up, junior man on the job, were they? They had to get out of there quickly and put some distance between them and the body, so you would’ve had to stop the bleeding on your own, and clean up at home.”

John followed the path of Sherlock’s story. “Except, you didn’t go straight home, did you? You stopped at Fulvia’s to get a drink.”

“Precisely, John.” Sherlock beamed. “But you couldn’t enter the bar with dried blood on your hands, so you nipped to the back and rinsed them quickly at the outdoor spigot. “

John nodded. “And then I’m guessing Fulvia took you upstairs and patched you up, kind heart that she is. Probably saved you from having a nastier scar.”

“So you see, Mr. Lloyd. We know that you couldn’t possibly have killed Melinda Wilson on Friday afternoon because you were too busy taking part in the murder of Albert Goins.”

Lloyd sat back, in shock. “Bloody hell,” he said, and that was when things got ugly. He took to his feet, and began railing against the accusation. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? The both of you, thinking you’re so clever with your Trimian and Perassic nonsense, but you’re both just talking bollocks.”

John stood, trying to bring the temperature of the room down. “Mr. Lloyd, listen…”

“No, you arse, you listen to me and listen well. If you bleeding benders want to keep your pretty faces intact, you will belt up and not whisper a word of these ‘deductions’ to anyone.”

“Mr. Lloyd,” said Sherlock, firmly. “Threatening us will not help your case.”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes -- you know, for a smart man you are incredibly stupid.” Lloyd laughed, and it was nothing short of terrifying. “No, you’re going to keep this bit of genius to yourselves, or you will learn firsthand that Lambeth isn’t the only one familiar with the art of the Chelsea Smile!”

He pushed past them, then, and headed out the door, letting it slam loudly behind him.

 

 

*****

Neither of them said a word for a moment.

“You think he’s serious?” John flexed his fingers, furiously, making fists at his sides.

“No, he’s bluffing.” Sherlock said, uncertainly, his voice strained. “Or…not. Either way, probably best to keep quiet about Merseyside for a while, see if the police solve that case on their own, for once.”

“I’ll keep the gun close for a while, I think,” John said, remembering the newspapers from back in the day, the photographs of the carved faces, the Chelsea bloody Smile. He closed his eyes…

All at once, he felt a calming hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Sherlock beside him.

“Look, John, he’s not going to hurt us.”

“Like I’d let him…”

“He’s a small man who is scrambling. The minute Lambeth finds him – “

“You don’t think he was working for Lambeth on the Goins case?”

“No, according to what I read, Goins was _with_ Lambeth. Lloyd, the idiot, apparently has chosen to work for a rival gang.” Sherlock said, moving to the desk to dump the ashtray into the bin. “Nice bit of interrogation, there, by the way, especially interesting what you uncovered about Teddy James.”

“Yeah,” said John, shedding his coat and loosening his tie. “Yeah, that was weird. Why lie about something like that?”

“The question is, who is lying?” Sherlock asked, and headed towards the kitchen.

John called after him. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Always,” came the response from the other room.

“Why doesn’t it bother you?” John asked, following him into the kitchen, but faltered when it became clear that Sherlock had continued into his bedroom. He hung back, awkwardly. “Sherlock?”

The detective paused in the doorway, brow arched, unbuttoning his shirt. “Hmm?” he replied.

John’s tried not to let the brief flash of Sherlock’s bare skin derail the conversation altogether. “Bender. Poofter…why doesn’t it bother you when people say things like that. When they…imply things?”

“Lloyd was hardly subtle enough to be _implying_ anything. But to answer your question,” Sherlock grinned, “these days, I’m tempted to congratulate them on being perceptive.” He pulled off the shirt, winked, and disappeared back into the bedroom.

“So, you’re okay with being called a – what did he say? A ‘knob jockey’?”

From the depths of his bedroom, Sherlock replied “I’ve been called worse.”

“But you’re not gay!” John protested. “I’m not gay! We, even as a couple, are not gay!”

It came out of his mouth before John could reel it back in, and he had to resist the urge to clamp his hand over his mouth after he said it. Sherlock, still shirtless in his trousers, returned to the doorway, and pointed triumphantly.

“You called us a couple!” Sherlock said, with no small bit of glee.

John stammered. “I didn’t mean…you know what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.” Sherlock mused, leaning against the doorframe, “But clearly you don’t.”

“I’m just saying –“

Sherlock interrupted him. “Why are you standing in the kitchen?”

John shrugged. “Because we’re having a conversation?”

Sherlock shifted, his thumb running distractedly along the waistband of his trousers. “Usually people are in the same room with one another when they have conversations.”

“I-I’m…” John floundered, mesmerized by the movements of that thumb. “…giving you your space, Sherlock. I mean, just because we…”

“Fuck?” Sherlock finished, with a smirk.

Arsehole. “Fine, yes, fuck, alright, doesn’t mean you give up your right to privacy.”

“That’s the thing, though, John.” Sherlock said, pushing away from the door. “I don’t want any privacy.” He moved down the hallway, towards John. “What I actually want, right this minute, is the polar opposite of privacy.”

John swallowed, and in a heartbeat, it seemed, Sherlock was there, inches away from him and completely absorbed in tracking his reaction. For his part, John was immediately hyper-aware of the expanse of perfect milky-white skin that was well-within reach: that bitable mole near the base of his throat, that scattering of freckles like constellations along his neck. “Sherlock, look, I’m trying to ask you a serious question.”

“And I seriously want to get off, John.” Sherlock said, pouting, gently crowding him into a kitchen chair. “Now, I patiently waited through the end of dinner, through the trip to the Yard, through Lloyd’s interminable story, and I think that patience should pay off, don’t you?”

Sitting in that chair, John was about belly-high to Sherlock, not that Sherlock had much of a belly at all – and at this distance, John could see the fine line of dark hair that ran from his navel into his trousers and beyond. He looked up and saw Sherlock looking down at him, haloed by the work lamp. “Yeah, I…yes, I do. Sir.”

“So. Let’s put a pin in your question for a moment and make room for a few of mine, shall we?” He tilted his head, eyes catching in the lamplight, so green in this room.

“Alright, then.” John licked his lips nervously, the very proximity of Sherlock sending his mind spinning. “W-what’s your question?”

“When you were in the loo, at the restaurant tonight, what did you think about? To excite yourself?”

John gave a little laugh, and ran a hand along the back of his neck.. “Uh, lots of things.”

“Did you think about me watching you?”

John shifted. shyly. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” Sherlock smiled to himself, dropping his gaze down to a nearby chair. He flipped it to face John’s and slouched into it. “Because I was wondering,” Sherlock’s lashes lifted then, eyes reconnecting with John’s. “I was wondering if _you_ might like to watch _me_?”

It was quiet in the room, just the sound of the two men breathing, the muted hum of the fridge in the background. John’s mouth parted, and he nodded. “I would very much like that, Sir.”

“Good,” Sherlock repeated, beginning to run his impossibly long fingers against the rise in his own trousers. “One thing, though, John: you can’t touch yourself. You can cum, if you can figure out a way to do it without your hands, but you cannot touch yourself. Are we clear?”

John nodded again, and looked down at his own hands, removing them from his lap completely. “Yes, Sir.”

Sherlock smiled. “I haven’t had to prompt you about my name so far, John. That’s progress. Good boy.” John flushed, and Sherlock stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning his shoulders back. “I’m curious. What is it about ‘good boy’ that appeals to you, specifically? Can you tell me?”

John tried not to become completely mesmerized by the expert movements of Sherlock’s hands, his thumb already rubbing hard, far harder than John would ever stand to rub himself. “I don’t know, honestly. It’s embarrassing, what it…does to me.”

Sherlock stared at him, eyes half-closed. “Does it make you feel like a child? Being called a boy?”

“A bit, I guess. But that’s…not helping me feel less embarrassed by it, thanks.”

“No childhood trauma I should know about, is there?” Sherlock asked, frankly. “Abrupt question, I know, but if we had done this the regular way, met in the usual manner, we would have already had this conversation.”

John shook his head. “No, I know, it’s…okay, actually. No. No childhood trauma.”

“So, it’s just a personality tell, then.” Sherlock said, pulling at the button on his trousers. “The responsible offspring of troubled parents, working hard to make good grades, to make something of himself, doing as he was told for family, queen and country in order to make everything better. Earning respect, and at the same time, his own place in the family. Who wouldn’t want to be that kind of ‘Good Boy”? Quite respectable, really, nothing to be embarrassed by.”

John blinked, stunned. “How can you even…? I don’t…” his voice trailed off.

“Don’t compliment me, John, that wasn’t even a deduction.” Sherlock fingered his zip, teasingly “I just know you.”

And that tease pulled the tiniest of moans from John’s lips -- a moan Sherlock must’ve appreciated as well, because all of a sudden, his mouth was open and his back was arched and he was pulling down the zip, flaying his trouser front wide, exposing himself to John. He reached down, again, so roughly, and gripped himself, pulling his balls up into his hand at the same time.

Sherlock was hard, but he could be harder, John noticed, and thought he might help. With a soft voice, John made an admission. “I…like watching you, like watching the way you touch yourself.”

Sherlock lubed his palm with the contents of a small vial he’d brought in from the bedroom with him, eyes half-closed and shot him a filthy little smile. “Of course you do. You’re taking mental notes, it’s obvious. Say what you will, but you really are mine.”

“Sherlock, let’s not…”

Sherlock gave in, waving his free hand. “Right. Later.” He lifted his hip, placing a foot on his chair for leverage and lazily began fucking his own hand, shuddering as he did.

John felt his own cock respond, and he instinctively swiveled his hips in the chair, pushing his own erection against the tight fabric of his trousers. The satin of the trouser lining had been torturing him since he’d binned his least-favorite pants at the restaurant, and the endless slip and slide of the fabric shifting against his cock had been maddening – and yet...

 _Wait._ John paused. Swiveled again. Smiled.

Sherlock Holmes was a fucking genius.

John found that if he worked his hips in just the right way, the satin provided nearly the perfect combination of friction and glide to make it…well, not easy, but at least potentially _possible_ , to get off.

Across from him, Sherlock smiled back. “You catch on quick, don’t you, slut?

“You brilliant bastard, I mean – brilliant _Sir_.” John said, cheekily. “This is why I’ve been pantsless all night?”

“Not all night, John.” Sherlock leered, and pulled his chair closer. “But yes. Something I discovered rather early on in my youth. Made me rather love a well-tailored suit.” His foot found a rest on the edge of John’s chair, and he watched John twist for a moment. “I like watching you struggle like that. I like the way you bite your lips, the intense concentration. It’s quite…endearing.”

Except, John didn’t want to be “endearing” – he wanted to get Sherlock off. He wanted to turn him on and make him cum, and maybe after he’d orgasmed, John would be allowed to, as well, preferably with his hands in play.

He decided to take matters in to his own (metaphorical) hands.

“It’s funny,” he started. “We were in here, actually, at this table.”  John said, slowing his hip movements down to a teasingly regular pace.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “When?”

“About two months ago.” John said, a positively salacious edge to his voice. “You asked me what I was thinking about in the restaurant loo. I thought about you watching me, and then I thought about something else.”

“What something else?”

“Something I fantasized about.”

“You fantasized about something involving this table?”

“Yes, Sir.” John loaded his response with a dewy-eyed look, one that shifted to indecent in the span of a moment . “Something with you.”

And so, starting with the orange, he recounted his breakfast fantasy to Sherlock, lingering on the elements of the story that seemed to pull the loudest noises from the detective’s throat. Before John even got to the punishment portion of the fantasy, Sherlock was hooked, and he leaned forward, pulling himself out of his trousers altogether. He kissed John then, sucking his bottom lip and opening his tie with a careless yank. “You mean to tell me that my _deductions_ were a part of your fantasy?” He asked, snaking his own hand down to John’s trouser front.

John bucked against his hand, grateful for the assistance. “Well, yeah. A critical part, actually, Sir.”

Sherlock shook his head, in disbelief. “You remarkable man,” he murmured.

“The rest of the fantasy's a little fucked up, though, Sir.” John explained.

“I’d be disappointed if it wasn't, John.” Sherlock said, falling back into his chair, and stroking himself at a faster clip. “Cum for me, John, however you have to do it without your hands, and tell me how the story ends.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***  
> Admit it. You like the tease…
> 
> \- [Cathay Garden](http://www.yelp.com/biz/cathay-garden-southport), in Merseyside. Wonder if he had the crispy duck?
> 
> \- _[“…geologically, Merseyside is a bit of a curiosity…”](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geology_of_Merseyside)_
> 
> \- The Lambeth Boys are an utterly transparent nod to [The Krays](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kray_twins)… 
> 
> -… right down to their [Chelsea Smile](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glasgow_smile).
> 
> \- To move on to a happier note, and just for reference, [John really is belly-high to Sherlock at the kitchen table](http://up.picr.de/16719131ry.jpg). (Folks who follow me on Tumblr saw this pic this morning, as a Follower Tease!)
> 
> \- _“He tilted his head, eyes catching in the lamplight…”_ [Let’s Play Murder, anyone?](http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/236x/48/ba/ea/48baea8fc44d8d4aba7079aa13570db2.jpg) (God, I loved that moment…)
> 
> \- Thanks to [Sketchybadger](http://sketchybadger.tumblr.com/) for their invaluable London Britpicking help, allowing me to narrow in on all things Chad Wilson, including probable gay slur choices and football preference! 
> 
> ‘Til next time!  
> vex.


	23. “Some Things Are Obvious”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finishes his story, Sherlock makes an unexpected request, and suddenly it feels an awful lot like a coffeeshop AU…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Rape Fantasy -- those who would rather avoid the trigger, please feel free to [drop me an Ask on Tumblr](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/) and I'll be happy to forward you a Trigger-Free version of the chapter.

 

Sherlock felt John’s eyes on him and he positively reveled in the doctor’s greedy stare, in his undivided attention, in the way the man’s body responded to Sherlock’s proximity and in the very appearance of his flesh.

It was a lot like being high, Sherlock thought, allowing his eyes to go heavy-lidded, and slouching farther into his chair. The rest of the world had melted away, and all that mattered was the here and now. Sherlock had wanted this performance, of sorts, this pantomime of exploitation, because he was curious to see how John would respond. He was, after all, his audience in so many other things, Sherlock thought it only fitting that he be his audience in this most base of moments. And if John managed to utter a few “Brilliants” and a handful of “Amazings” while doing so, well, Sherlock most certainly wouldn’t complain…

So Sherlock stroked for John, making sure to show John how he liked it, so he’d never have to worry about being too rough because Sherlock knew his limits, although he didn’t yet know all of John’s.

He did know what John liked though, and more data was coming through with every passing second. John liked the sounds Sherlock made, that much was clear, with his groans coming directly on the heels of Sherlock’s own vocalizations, every time. Judging purely by the amount of times John licked his lips, he also seemed to particularly fixate on Sherlock’s fingers – watching them move over his stomach, his thighs, over the tip of his cock, and Sherlock longed to wrap those fingers over John’s licentious little mouth and to feel his breath hot and wet against his hand.

It was an experiment, after all: Sherlock, willingly placing himself in a subservient role, to assess the degree of John’s submissive nature. While it was tempting to define power preferences as black and white, in reality, like so much else in the world, they were actually best measured on a grey scale.

Because, let’s face it: if John had swung entirely-100%-nothing-but-submissive, he would’ve declined Sherlock’s offer to watch – or at least not have taken as much lurid enjoyment from it, as John was right now. And John wasn’t a passive viewer, no sir. He still struggled against the satin lining of his suit, still playing within the “no hands” parameter that Sherlock had set. The detective made a mental note to buy John a silk-lined suit for next time, the slide of silk being so much smoother.

While Sherlock was considering this future purchase, the experiment took a somewhat unexpected turn, when John took control of the conversation and steered it into the telling of one of his fantasies, the whole point of which seemed to be entirely for Sherlock’s masturbatory benefit.

 _Well_ , thought Sherlock, _perhaps not entirely._ He knew that John might anticipate a reward in the aftermath of bringing Sherlock to a successful climax, but it was curious, and in all honesty, Sherlock wasn’t sure what this meant for the experiment. On the one hand, John-as-Scheherazade was appealing, the attempt to bring him off was flattering and it could certainly be interpreted as subservience, John doing his Dom a service. On the other hand, taking control of the conversation, and turning it to a subject of his liking, could also be interpreted as “topping from the bottom”.  

 _Fuck it_ , thought Sherlock, _whatever it is, it’s working…_

 

 

*****

John’s voice was quiet _._

_“In the fantasy, I’d taken your paper, sat in your lap and kissed you, all while saying I wouldn’t do anything without your permission. Of course you were cross with me -- I mean, pleased to some extent, but angry that I’d overstepped my bounds before you’d even had a chance to establish them. And I was so selfish, Sherlock, goading a response out of you because I was impatient…”_

 

“And filthy.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled.

“Yess,” said John, arching his hips. “That was back when it had started in earnest, when I’d only just allowed myself to entertain…thoughts about you.”

“Mmhh…” mumbled Sherlock, spilling more lube into his palm. “More story.”

_So, you grabbed my wrist, my right one, your thumb and forefinger circling it and holding it tight. My pulse raced, and sneering, you lifted my arse with your free hand and lifted me, pushing me backwards onto the table, sending toast and teacups flying. It all happened so fast, but I let it happen, Sherlock, because I wanted you to be careless with me like that.”_

 

“Oh, christ,” muttered Sherlock, and ran his lube-slicked hand from to top of his cock to beneath his balls.

John continued to pulse his hips, but the movement had slowed and smoothed, the enjoyment of the story taking over, his cock swelling in memory of the fantasy.

_“You stood, then, with my legs still splayed wide on the table, and you pressed forward, lifting my wrist above my head until you were bent over me and you, you…” John went pink here. “You pressed yourself…hard between my legs and your face was inches above mine and you were frighteningly calm, and you asked me, ‘Is this what you want? You say you want my permission, slut, but then you do whatever you please. Do you think that’s okay?’”_

_And my breath was shaking, and I said “No” but you ignored me, and kept on talking._

_“You must think it’s okay, considering your behaviour, so let’s play like that, what do you think, you vulgar little pet?”_

_And, of course, I shook my head no, but again, you were having none of it._

 

Sherlock’s stroking slowed. “Is this going where I think it’s going, John?”

John pinked, shrugged self-consciously and looked at the floor. “I told you it was a little fucked up. Should I stop?”

“Did I tell you to stop?”

“No, but maybe I want to.”

“Would it matter if you did?”

“You tell me.”

Sherlock resumed stroking. “Tell me the rest of the story, John, and I will tell you if it would matter.”

 

_“I didn’t know about your restraints then, but I knew about the handcuffs, Lestrade’s handcuffs in the desk drawer. In the fantasy, you pulled me up off the table, dragged me into the sitting room like a naughty child and collected the cuffs from the drawer. I struggled, because I felt like I should, especially since the cuffs were clearly for me and I didn’t want them. The first time I said stop, though, wasn’t until you’d snapped a cuff around my wrist and snapped the other to the leg of the kitchen table.”_

 

“You said stop. I take it I didn’t?”

“No.”

“And this…excites you?” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

John bit his lip, a flush of shame. Shit, he thought. He shouldn’t have told this story. “You know, maybe I shouldn’t have, um, shared this partic—“

“Shut the fuck up, you _vulgar little pet_.” Sherlock interrupted, enunciating the words precisely, watching their effect turn John’s expression. “Shut the fuck up and tell me everything.”

John’s mouth dropped, and he stammered a bit on the return…

 

_“Y-you pushed me back down over the table, this time face down, and told me that since I’d behaved like a child, I’d be punished like one. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that you’d taken a volume of The Children’s Encyclopedia from the bookshelf – vintage hardcover, solid binding in spite of its age – and were hefting it in your hand, calculating its weight. I panicked, tried apologizing, tried reasoning with you, tried demanding to be released, and you responded by gripping the back of my neck and slamming the book hard against my arse.”_

“That would hurt, I imagine…”

“The way I imagined it, it did.”

“How many?” Sherlock asked, anticipatory, licking his own lips this time. “How many strokes did you imagine I’d give you?”

John smiled. “It would vary.”

“So, you had this fantasy more than once?”

“I’ve had this fantasy dozens of times.” John said boldly. “Sometimes, I’d only get ten strokes, other times…a lot more.”

Sherlock leaned in. “How bad would it get, John? How far would you let it go?”

John’s eyes looked away. “Sometimes, most times, you’d leave me bloody…”

 

_“By the end of the spanking, I’d be crying, whimpering, and you’d flip me around, onto my back, and you’d sometimes slap my cock until I begged for mercy. Other times, you’d kiss me, sweetly, and stroke me gently, as if to apologize, only to slowly press your hand up hard against my windpipe, restricting my air, keeping the pressure there until I would pass ou—“_

“Stop,” Sherlock’s closed eyes flipped open. “Best to stop that particular part of the fantasy.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Not into breathplay, then?”

Sherlock laughed, as if to a private joke, and shook his head. “Um, no…and you shouldn’t either. Too dangerous.”

“It’s just fantasy.”

“Is it?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Skip the choking, you dirty slut and tell me how I fuck you…”

 

“ _You’d always turn me back onto my stomach for the fucking, kick my legs apart, and tell me that if I wanted your cock so badly, I’d have it, but on your terms. I’d beg you not to, I’d plead, but you’d just laugh at me, and show me how hard I was, use it as evidence that I wanted you to hurt me, that the body never lied, but that people often did…”_

“Oh, fuck, John,” Sherlock whined, and John could tell from his voice alone how close he was to orgasm. He finished out the rest of the story in pace with Sherlock’s strokes, in rhythm with his unrelenting hand...

 

_“…and then you’d push your way into me with no condom and no lube -- because I didn’t deserve it, did I? -- and you wanted it to hurt, wanted me to remember how it felt to overstep my bounds…”_

“So close, John, please, fuck, so close…”

 

_“…and even if I didn’t bleed from the spanking, I would always bleed then, your cock tearing into me, tearing me, it felt like, in two - but I could never tell if it was actually blood on the backs of my thighs, or if it was just sweat or cum. And I’d moan because I’d become your hole, just some—“_

 

A loud groan ripped from Sherlock’s throat then, and John hurried to the end, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

_“—thing for you to fuck. I wouldn’t climax, of course, that wouldn’t be allowed, no stimulation, holes don’t cum, do they? But you would, always, cumming hard into me, and onto me, and whe—“_

Sherlock came with a roar, right on cue, and John took note of the twitch of his cock that preceded it, the gasp that started it, the gorgeous relief on his face during release and the blissful expression that followed the last convulsion, the last shiver, and the last breathy moan.

Eventually, Sherlock opened his eyes, a bit sheepishly, John noticed. Fucking adorable.

“Clearly, I’ve underestimated your skill as a storyteller, John. I will never make fun of the blogs again.” Sherlock sat upright in his chair and buckled his trousers. “You’re amazing. Really brilliant, John.”

John beamed. “Glad you…found it…you know, whatever, motivating.”

Sherlock winked. “We do need to talk, though.”

“It was just a fantasy, Sherlock. Don’t read too much into it, okay?”

“But…it was…rape, though, yeah?”

The room went instantly quiet. The vocalization of the word immediately set John on edge.

“Yeah, but again, _fantasy_.” John crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, I really didn’t expect you to get judgmental, Sherlock, of all people. Just because I think about stuff to get off, it doesn’t mean I really want it to happen.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers. “What if you _did_ want it to happen?”

John paused. “What?”

“We’d have to have a talk, hammer out details, negotiate everything – that would be the beauty of it, sorting out all the possible reactions!” Sherlock jumped up, excited.

“But I don’t want to be raped, Sherlock!” John said emphatically, standing and turning to face his now apparently insane flatmate.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist and pulled him close. “It wouldn’t be rape, John, it would be a gloriously choreographed scene. We’d sort out all the details together, you’d still ultimately have a safeword – “

“Dunno, wouldn’t it seem a bit…rehearsed?”

“Not if you didn’t know when or how it would happen. Not if it didn’t actually happen until a week, a month, a year after the negotiation.”

“You’re mad!” John said, with a smile, because he didn’t want to be raped, not really, but the thought of coming home one night and having Sherlock frighten him, surprise him, carelessly push him to the edge of his limits? _Fuck…_

john reached up and pulled Sherlock down for a kiss, the thought of Sherlock’s proposal thrumming through his brain, and it was passionate and deliberate and John let himself get lost in that kiss…but he found his way back when Sherlock began to speak.

“I may be mad, John,” Sherlock said, turning his attention to the button on John’s trousers “But I not mad enough to ignore how hard you still are and how very well you followed the rules this evening.”

“Oh, Jesus,” said John, nuzzling into his neck, his voice gone husky. “Does that mean I can use my hands?”

“No, “ Sherlock smiled. “But it does mean that I will use my mouth…”

 

****

John woke the next morning to the sounds of Sherlock showering, and for a moment, he considered joining him, but the bed was warm and his memories of the night before were fresh, so he nestled deeper into the covers, smelling Sherlock’s skin on his pillow. Perfect…he could stay here forever…

“John, get dressed, the wedding’s just started.”

The doctor’s eyes flew open, taking in a manic, half-dressed Sherlock with a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. “Wha-what wedding?”

“Teddy James’.”

John’s brain was having difficulty making connections. He peeled back the covers and stood up. “Mel’s Teddy? Or, Lily’s, or, whoever? He’s getting _married_?”

Sherlock made a face. “No, it’s his _job_ , not his wedding. He’s a wedding photographer.”

“And how do we know this?” John headed for the shower.

Sherlock followed him in, finishing his brushing and shouting over the noise of the water. “Callous on the pad of his right thumb, rubber-soled dress shoes, inexpensive overcoat with generous pockets, the slouch and physique of someone who’s accustomed to hours of editing and the ready smile of someone whose business demands them to be pleasant, even when they don’t want to. Also, dream job for an alcoholic – open bars, distracted clients, so long as he gets the key shots, he can fix any mistakes made on the job in post. Some things are obvious, John, I knew it the minute I shook his hand.”

In the shower, John shook his head. It never got old, his genius. “So we’re crashing the wedding?”

“No, breaking into his flat while he’s gone. I got a text from the Network, he left for work 15 minutes ago. We’ve got maybe three hours to get to his flat and scour it before he returns home. Clock is ticking!”

“And what exactly is it that we’re looking for?” John opened the shower door, dripping, rubbing water from his eyes.

Sherlock held out a towel, noting John’s shifting sense of modesty. He didn’t object to Sherlock seeing him like this, didn’t feel the need to immediately cover up. He wondered how much of this change was due to last night’s story. It made sense. John had put a dangerous piece of himself out there, and he hadn’t been rejected for it. Fascinating, how people work.

Intimacy, Sherlock supposed, might not be such a bad thing after all…

“Fingerprints. We’ve still got two prints that are unaccounted for. I’m pretty sure one of those is Teddy’s, considering he’s part of the trio we met with in Islington – Victor, Lily and Teddy, but we have to be sure.”

John nodded. “Right. Well, let me run upstairs and change and I’ll be down in a sec. Put the kettle on for me?”

Sherlock assented. But before John was out of earshot, the detective turned and called out to him. “Um, John?”

“Yeah?” John paused between the kitchen and the sitting room.

Sherlock felt suddenly clumsy. “Well, would it be…entirely out of line…if I were to ask for a favor?”

John’s face softened. “Not at all, what do you need?”

Sherlock stared at the floor, with a slightly embarrassed smile on his face. “Would you…I mean, only if you want to, but…would you wear your blue striped jumper?”

John felt a small smile bloom on his lips. “Sure.”

“You’re not going to ask why?”

John’s smile widened. “Don’t have to. Like you said, some things are obvious, Sherlock.” And with a wink, he turned and headed up the stairs, with an added spark in his step.

 

****

Teddy James, it turned out, was a hoarder.

Perhaps that was an unkind assessment. Perhaps he just needed a bigger flat, or less things, or…a housekeeper. But regardless, Sherlock intention to “scour” Teddy’s flat in under three hours was a clear impossibility, one they realized the moment they walked through the door.

The living room was a tangle of videogame components, books and actual record albums. His bedroom was awash with unwashed clothing, and his bathroom…well, his bathroom had been clean, which was reassuring in some way, but his kitchen sink was not, piled high with glasses and plates.

His office, however, was hands-down the most intimidating area in the flat, piled high from floor to ceiling with stacks of videotapes, multiple formats, Beta-SP and VHS, S-VHS, Mini-DV, even some ¾ and 1” tapes, stacked, high on a shelf. Following the path through the stacks, they eventually found a dual monitor computer setup near the window, a colorful video-editing keyboard centered between the screens, and a well-worn leather office chair pushed up close beneath it.

“Bit of a cautionary tale,” said John, looking around. “Remind me to clean out my closet when we get home.”

“I was hoping to poke around a bit more, while we we’re here, but I’m frankly overwhelmed,” admitted Sherlock. “Let’s just get the prints, do a cursory look around and head out.”

“Fine with me,” John agreed, and opened a filing cabinet at the entrance of the kitchen. “This looks like…bills…from, okay, 2005. Nothing personal, no correspondence.”

Sherlock pulled a plastic evidence bag out from his suit pocket and flared it open, wrapping it around a dirty pint glass near the sink. “Gotcha!” he said. “Plenty to work with here. Three or four good samples.”

John had moved into the kitchen with him, and eyed a photograph hanging from the fridge. It was a candid snap, Teddy and Lily and Melinda, at the beach, Teddy with a painful looking sunburn, Lily with a squinty smile, Melinda with a far-away look, a hard-to-parse expression, which sort of just defined this case for John. “Whoever he was dating, they were close, those three.”

“All the more reason to think print #3 is Teddy’s.” Sherlock placed the evidence bag in one of the cloth shopping bags hanging from Teddy’s pantry. “Let’s go, John.”

“Gladly,” he said, and pulled the door shut behind him.

 

****

It was a simple procedure to remove the prints from Teddy James’ pint glass – a light brush of aluminum flake powder over the print, a piece of clear adhesive tape, smooth out the air bubbles and scan the image into the lab computer at Barts.

A simple procedure and it was confirmed: the third print did, in fact, belong to Teddy James. John felt frustrated, and pinned all his hopes to an easy resolution to this case with identification of the fourth print.

They left Bart’s on foot, because Sherlock wanted to make an unscheduled stop, into a coffeeshop that John had never been to. “We’re stopping here?” he asked, curiously.

“Yeah. I like their…pastry.” Sherlock said, making a vague gesture at the display case while they waited in line to order.

“Pastry? Wasn’t aware you were a fan.”

“Croissants, John. Everyone on planet Earth loves chocolate croissants.” He ordered one, with an espresso and John made it two. As an afterthought, Sherlock ordered a latte, as well.

“If you drink all that caffeine, I expect you to run the rest of the way home.”

Sherlock made a face. “Caffeine’s effect, on me at least, is overrated.”

John shrugged. “It’s your nervous system.”

The girl behind the counter was pleasant, and just John’s type, normally, fresh-faced and friendly, but he hardly noticed her until she asked “For here, or take away?”

He automatically answered “Take away”, just as Sherlock answered “For here.”

John turned. “Oh, are we staying?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said, whisking away the croissants while John followed him with the coffees, a quizzical expression on his face.

“Have you solved the case again without telling me?” John asked, sliding into the booth. “Because I don’t remember working coffee breaks into our schedule.” He bit into the croissant. “Although, god, maybe we should from now on…that’s good.”

“Of course it is.” Sherlock said, removing a Sharpie marker from his pocket and scribbling over his own name (spelled wrong, of course) on the cardboard cup and continuing to draw. “And no, I haven’t solved it yet. We’re still on the case.”

John looked at him skeptically. “We’re on the case, right now? Eating this croissant?”

“Yep.” Sherlock said, over-enunciating the “p” and looking absently around the room.

John wasn’t about to argue any farther. It was cold outside and the shop was warm, the coffee was hot and the pastry was delicious. Just as he was beginning to relax, a ginger-haired middle-aged woman, slightly older than Sherlock and John, approached the table.

“Sorry I’m late, thanks for ordering for me.” Both men stood on her approach, first Sherlock, then John. “Oh, sit,” she said, “I’m afraid I can’t stay.” They sat down, and she turned to Sherlock. “You’re looking fit, as always.”

“You as well, Bea.” He said, with a notably genuine smile.

John held out his hand. “I’m John.”

“Of course you are.” She smiled. “Who else would you be?”

Before anything else could be said, she turned back to Sherlock. “I’m afraid I really am expected elsewhere.” She tapped the top of the latte, the one Sherlock had been scribbling on. “Is this for me?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Two sugars, not one.”

“Got it.” Bea looked to John. “I’m usually not nearly this rude, I promise. Someday we should meet under less hurried circumstances.”

“Always the flirt, Bea?”

“Some things never change, Sherlock.” She picked up the cup and kissed him on the top of his head. “I’ll text you later. Nice meeting you, John.”

The shop’s door chimed her exit, and John looked, amused, at Sherlock. “Okay, who, in the world was that?”

Sherlock stretched out his legs. “You’ll laugh.”

“No, I won’t. I promise.”

“That was Beatrix. Family friend, works for customs, and once upon a time, she was my…” he blushed a bit before finishing “…babysitter.”

John’s expression turned gleeful. “Babysitter? She _baby_ sat for the great Sherlock Holmes?”

“Shut up, I wasn’t even a baby. Look, there was a brief period of time when Mycroft first went off to school that my mother and father didn’t feel comfortable leaving me alone. Not after that one time with the…smallish…fire.” Sherlock coughed, and bit into his croissant. “So they hired Beatrix to make sure I didn’t blow up the sitting room in their absence. She was fun.”

“How _fun_?” John’s eyes narrowed a bit.

“John, I was 10.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Of course, once I turned 18, she proved to be an altogether different kind of fun.”

“Sherlock!” John said, aghast. “Tell me you did not fuck your babysitter!”

Sherlock’s voice was dismissive. “Years later, John, it was completely above board!”

John couldn’t help but laugh. “And you call me a slut, Sherlock. At least my babysitters remain untouched -- by my hand, anyway.” He finished off his coffee. “So, what was this all about, anyway? You said she worked for customs? Have something to do with Louis? Or Victor?”

“Clever, John, good. Louis, but Victor’s an interesting thought as well.” Sherlock licked chocolate off his thumb and forefinger. “No, I’m just confirming a suspicion.”

“I thought Louis was cleared, what with Albert Goins and the Triassic and Permian what-have-yous.”

Sherlock crumpled up his napkin and deposited it neatly into the coffee cup. “As we’ve already established, innocence in one crime does not preclude guilt in another, John.” He stood up. “Now, would you be so kind as to join me? I feel the sudden need to crash a wedding.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> Sorry if I spoiled the surprise for anyone with the trigger warning – as mild as John’s fantasy really was, I would really hate to set off unpleasantness for anyone... 
> 
> \- With all thanks to [mid0nz](http://mid0nz.tumblr.com/post/51086135755/bbc-sherlocks-books-magazines-master-list), it’s confirmed that there is a complete set of [“The Children’s Encyclopedia”](http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/A1UpFa-b5gL._SL1500_.jpg) on the shelves at 221B…(Those who follow me on Tumblr got to see the book pic as a Follower Tease yesterday!) 
> 
> \- John’s [blue-striped jumper](http://wearsherlock.tumblr.com/post/17431954832/folk-undergarm-pullover-knit-as-worn-by-john-in-a). As if you all needed reminding…
> 
> \- More [fingerprint research](http://www.ehow.com/how_8784302_fingerprint-off-glass.html). File this under “Stuff We’ve All Seen On TV”…
> 
> \- [The coffeeshop](http://www.dose-espresso.com) where John and Sherlock met Beatrix. I can’t really vouch for their chocolate croissants, but face it, have you ever really had a bad one?
> 
> \- I usually cast her as John’s sister Harry, but god, [Alex Kingston](http://spinoff.comicbookresources.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/alex-kingston.jpg) just crawled into my brain for Beatrix and I can’t get her out!
> 
> This chapter was fun to write, some interesting structure stuff, a bit of important relationship development, I think, and humor! Hopefully it all worked for you, and hopefully you enjoyed it!
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting, your responses drive me from chapter to chapter, especially as we get closer to the end!
> 
> You’re all fantastic!  
> vex.


	24. "Zero-to-Sixty"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fulvia’s situation is defined, Sherlock and John miss a wedding, and Victor loves everybody in this room, man (or rather, he would, if he wasn't so wasted)!

 

Bass notes shook the walls of the Manager’s Office at Player’s East, effectively masking the sounds of Fulvia rattling and then kicking at the locked door. The message was clear: Fulvia wanted OUT, but the only person likely to be at the club this early on a Wednesday morning was the same person who had locked her there in the first place:

“Chad! Louis?! You can’t leave me in here forever!” She shouted. “Hello? Anyone? Help!” She pounded on the door. Moments later, she heard the clatter of keys from the hallway, and the door opened.

“Oi, Fulvia, darling, so noisy!” He said, reproachfully.

Fulvia shook her head, furious. “Do you even understand what you’ve done? This is kidnapping!”

“You call it kidnapping,” Louis smiled, “I call it…recruitment. Some of the girls here have been slacking off, and you clearly can’t be allowed out and about until after the fraud case is sorted, god knows who you’ll talk to, so I thought I might kill two birds with one stone.”

“Recruitment my arse, your goons took me out of my pub at _gunpoint_ , and you locked me up in this office _overnight_!” She waited for a reaction, and getting none, said, “You’re mental. I’m going home,” and headed for the door.

“No you’re not.” He pressed his weight against the door, hand on the panel above her. “You are staying here, for the next few weeks, until I get things sorted with the case, and you’re going to help me whip this place into shape while you’re here. If you do your job without running away, without calling the cops or alerting the girls or the customers, I don’t see any reason why I need to lock you up in here during working hours. After working hours, you come home with me, just like old times.”

“And why on earth would I do that?”

“Because if you do, I’ll give you a second chance, love, since you royally fucked up the last one. Do what I say and I won’t mention your involvement in the fraud. I will keep you out of the nick, Fulvia.”

Fulvia lifted her chin. “And if I don’t?”

“Easy, darling,” Louis ran an idle finger across the bridge of her bruised nose. “I already told you. I’ll burn you and your pub right down to the ground.” He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “And now you know I don’t make idle threats, my love.”

She stared at him, then, speechless, hands trembling. 

“I’m a terribly rude host, aren’t I?” He gently moved her away from the door, and opened it a crack, shouting. “Angelina, could you bring me a bottle of scotch and two lunch specials? And be quick with it,” he said, turning to Fulvia, with a wink. “I’m entertaining your new assistant manager.”

 

 

*****

 “Who gets married on a Wednesday, anyway?”

Sherlock and John were on their way to Hyde Park, but the detective had informed the cabbie that there would be two additional stops along the way, which was news to John.

“People on a budget. People who work weekends. People who are overly sentimental.” Sherlock said, automatically, as if deducing in his sleep.

John’s brow quirked. “Sentimental? Wednesdays are sentimental?”

Sherlock scowled. “No, John. But this particular Wednesday might be, if today’s date is somehow significant – first date, first kiss, first fuck, what have you. If they’re sentimental about the date on the calendar, they might not care that Auntie Gwendolyn can’t get out for a Wednesday wedding. Or, conversely,” he said, suddenly quoting,” _‘_ _Wed on Monday, always poor, Wed on Tuesday, wed once more, Wed on Wednesday, a happy match.’_ – so it might be superstition, as well.”

One of these days, John was not going to be surprised by the scope and depth of the man’s knowledge, of both the exotic and the mundane, but today wasn’t that day. “You’re quoting wedding poems now?”

“I had a case once, where – oh,” Sherlock stopped midsentence, as the taxi pulled up outside 221B. “Wait here and I’ll be back in a moment.”

And so, John waited. The cabbie turned and smiled. “You…and him! He’s that guy, from the papers and you the one who stands beside ‘im.”

John smiled, politely, a tight little smile. “Right. I’m his…” John’s mind ran through the possibilities _. Blogger? Certainly. Flatmate? Of course. Friend? Yes, indeed. Boyfriend? Currently in negotiation. Colleague? Bit formal. Business Partner? Perfect._ “…business partner,” John said at last, with a satisfied nod.

“He’s a bit stiff, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but he’s damned clever.” John said, looking up at the first floor window. He shrugged back at the cabbie. “Well, you know, if you know about us. People don’t know he’s talented in other ways, though, too. Gifted violinist, black belt in Judo, beyond fluent in The Knowledge without ever having driven a cab himself, wicked sense of humor. You just have to crack past that spiky outer layer. Inside he’s…quite a good man.”

“Sounds like you’re well past that spiky part.” From the front seat, the cabbie smiled.

“You could say that, yeah.” John said, sweetly awkward.

The cabbie nodded his head, indicating Sherlock’s return. The detective entered the cab, carrying a brown paper shopping bag. He cued the driver to move on to their next destination.

“Where are we going?” John asked, peering over his shoulder.

Sherlock smirked. “Just running a small errand, but a critical one. Hardly feel myself without it.” He opened the bag a bit wider to reveal its contents: Sherlock’s soiled Belstaff.

John blushed on cue. “Forgot about that…”

“It’s no worry” said Sherlock, dismissively. “Just a quick run to the cleaners. But John: you won’t mind running it in, will you? Same-day services, if possible. Of course, you’ll need to explain those—“

“RIGHT, yes,” said John, interrupting him before he could say anything crass in front of the nice, understanding cabbie. “I understand what I need to explain.”

Sherlock leaned in to John’s ear. “You realize: your blushing is far more obscene than anything I could say, John…in fact, I bet you’ll go positively purple with embarrassment at the cleaners, lovely. I’ll be watching from the cab, of course. Wouldn’t do to have me there to share your shame, now would it?”

He leaned back, and the car once again pulled to a stop. Sherlock handed him the bag, and delivered a cheery, albeit insincere, grin. “Thanks ever so much, John. Just have them put it on my account.”

John exited the cab, but hesitated on the kerb. With Sherlock not coming inside, he knew that technically, he could do whatever he wanted in the shop, so long as he put on some show of the emotions Sherlock was expecting. He could walk in there and boldly blame the stains on Sherlock himself, probably get lots of sympathy from the cleaners, even – after all, Sherlock’s fastidious ways were bound to have made enemies out of at least a few of them over the years.

But, no.

Just, no. It wouldn’t be right.

Beyond right, though, truth was, John wanted this shame, as odd as that may sound, wanted to play this game with Sherlock -- and cheating, lying or pretending wasn’t part of the deal.

 _And besides,_ he shrugged, _they’re dry cleaners, for fuck’s sake._ Considering all the stains they must see in a day, they probably wouldn’t bat an eye...

So John lifted his chin, straightened his shoulders and with an air of determination, walked directly into the shop.

 

 

 ****

The door chimed his entrance. An older woman, old enough to be John’s mother, greeted him from behind the counter. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” he said, pleasant expression firmly in place. “Am I – have I made the same-day deadline?”

“By the skin of your teeth, sweetheart. In by eleven, out by five.”

“Oh, great. That’s…great.” John said, nodding his head, distractedly.

The clerk’s nodded with him, waiting expectantly.

An uncomfortable few seconds passed.

“So,” she said, suddenly, “Did you, uh…?” and looked meaningfully at the bag in John’s hand.

John followed her gaze. “Oh – oh, yes, sorry! Don’t know where my head is at…” He lifted the bag to the counter quickly, the blush now rising. “I-I’ve got this, um, coat, you see, needs….cleaning.”

She eyed him curiously and reached in to take the coat out of the bag. He rushed to help her, taking care to help her present it so that the stains were not immediately apparent. She raised her eyebrows. “I know this coat – belongs to…Holmes, doesn’t it?” Leaning over to the computer terminal behind the counter, she tapped a few keys and made a satisfactory noise. “Yes, Sherlock Holmes. Usually brings it in beginning of the season as well as at the end.”

John agreed quickly. “Yes. He’s my flatmate. Told me to charge it to his account.”

“Of course,” she smiled, and began fiddling with the collar, fondly. “Handsome man, Mr. Holmes.”

John nodded curtly. “Yes, I suppose he is.”

“You wouldn’t believe what this coat has seen. The first time that he brought it in with blood stains up one side and down the other, it took him ten minutes to convince us not to call the Met. It was only when we spoke with someone directly from The Yard that we agreed to clean it.”

John squirmed as she continued to push and prod fondly at the fabric, this time flipping it over to examine the state of the cuffs.

“Anything we should look out for this time?” She grinned, conspiratorially. “Blood again? Vitreous Humor? Camel excrement? That was the best one and—“ she cut off as she turned it precisely the wrong way ‘round.  “Oh. I…see. Is that…?” She raised her eyes quizzically.

John did, indeed, go purple. “Yes!” he said, quickly, wanting to get this over with. “Yes, it’s exactly, yes, what you think. A, um, stain that needs…cleaning. When, uh, when did you say it will be ready?”

“Mr. Holmes is your flatmate, you say?”

“Yes. I’m just, doing him a favor.”

“A favor, huh? Why haven’t I seen you before?”

“I…guess I haven’t been…especially…thoughtful, until now?” Behind John, the door chimed, and a woman with a baby stroller queued up behind him. John quickly folded the coat so that no stains were visible.

The clerk looked at him skeptically. “I need you to be honest with me, Sir: does Mr. Holmes even know that you are having his coat cleaned?”

“What? I-I don’t understand.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time. Happens all the time with these sorts of…stains. They happen shall we say, inadvertantly and then there’s a scramble to remove them, quickly and quietly”

John immediately became indignant. “Are you suggesting that I…” he leaned in, speaking under his breath. “…am not only responsible for the…stains,  but that I am also _surreptitiously_ removing the evidence from Sherlock’s coat?”

The clerk leaned in as well. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting, yes. And sweetheart, I don’t blame you,” she lifted her shoulders. “Like I said, he’s a handsome man!” She pushed the coat back towards him. “But I can’t charge it to his account without his express confirmation.”

“His express—“

“—confirmation, yes.”

John sighed, and looked over his shoulder to the waiting woman. “Sorry, this will only take a moment…” He pulled out his mobile and dialed Sherlock’s number, handing the clerk his phone.

“Mr. Holmes?” She turned away from the counter, and twittered upon recognition of Sherlock’s voice.

John looked over his shoulder to the waiting customer, once more. “Dry cleaners. So many…rules, nowadays.” He nervously reached over and folded the coat on the counter once again, just to be safe.

 

****

From the backseat of the cab, Sherlock watched John, watched his hesitation on the pavement, watched the precise moment where he decided to go through with what was being asked of him. _My brave soldier_ , he thought.

“Nice guy, your partner.”

The cabbie’s voice floated from the front seat, and, distracted, it took a moment to register with Sherlock. “Yes, he’s…I’m sorry – what did you say?”

The cabbie turned. “Your partner. He’s a nice guy.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “How did you know he was my partner?”

The cabbie shrugged. “He told me. Said a lot of flattering things about you, too, while you were out.”

“Oh yeah?” Sherlock’s attention was torn now, between the cabbie’s words and the goings-on in the shop, where the clerk was just now removing Sherlock’s coat from the bag. “Flattering things? What flattering things?”

The cabbie shifted in his seat. “Said you were talented, and not just in the obvious ways. That you were a musician and did karate or somesuch thing, and that you were funny and a good man, inside.”

In the cleaners, the clerk was just now confronting John with the stain, and the Doctor’s color had reached a fever pitch, but Sherlock’s attention was taken entirely by the driver’s words.

“He really said those things?” Sherlock moved forward, hands on the backs of the front seat. “He said I was his partner, and that I was a good man?”

The cabbie smiled. “Yeah. Wish my missus thought half as highly of me. You’re lucky.”

Sherlock smiled to himself and fell back into the seat. He knew John loved him, even if he wasn’t willing to admit it yet. But he hadn’t been prepared for John to speak of it so easily to a stranger. It made him…hopeful. Even if John hadn’t said the words to him, he’d said them to someone, and that was something.

That’s when his mobile rang. “This is Sherlock Holmes…”

 

****

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Of course, I’ll let him know.”

The clerk turned back to John, with an ingratiating look on her face. “My apologies, Dr. Watson, I am terribly sorry, please forgive me.”

John’s expression relaxed a fraction of an inch. “You’re…sorry?”

“Yes!” The clerk smiled and handed his phone back to him. “Mr. Holmes confirmed that he asked you to run this errand for him, that he was too embarrassed by the…” she paused here, to whisper “…stain…” before returning to her natural speaking volume. “…to personally make the trip, and that you were kind enough to agree to bring it in for him.” She bundled the coat into a mesh bag and pulled the cord tight. “Please accept my apologies, again, for any embarrassment my assumptions may have caused, but you just can’t be too careful, can you?”

A smile grew on John’s face. “No, I suppose you can’t.”

“The coat will be ready for pickup anytime after two today – extra rush at no charge, it’s the least we can do.”

John was grinning fully by now. “Excellent. Thank you. We’ll see you then.”

The cab pulled up as John left the shop, and Sherlock swung the door open for him. “Nice work, John.”

“Nicer work, Sherlock,” John said, sliding in beside him. “Wasn’t expecting you to save me the embarrassment at the end, there.”

“Well,” said Sherlock, casually, looking at some distant point out the window. “I got the reaction I was looking for, thoroughly enjoyed it, but saw no value in prolonging the response. Besides,” he smiled quietly to himself and to his flatmate. “I couldn’t let you hang. We’re partners, after all.”

John’s mouth opened, looking from Sherlock to, finally, the cabbie, whose matchmaking expression told the tale. Realization bloomed within John. “Partners,” he echoed, and then back again to Sherlock. “I mean, partners…exactly.”

John settled back into his seat, but this time, Sherlock’s hand discreetly sought out his own.

 

 

****

Fulvia may have been a drunk, but there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to forget the state of what passed as “business” at Player’s Club East.

Louis Lloyd ruled Player’s Club with a fleshy pink fist, demanding drinks, food, music, drugs and favors as if they were owed to him. He was boorish with the customers, handsy with the girls, and enabled the worst in everyone. After lunch, he’d called into his office a cabal of dancers with bad skin and even worse teeth, breaking out a small bag of white rocks that they promptly smoked via a delicate-looking glass pipe, the volume in the room steadily increasing.

“You would like this, Ful,” Louis said, singsong, holding the pipe out to her.

She rolled her eyes. “No thanks.”

“No? Well you’re no fun, Fulvia.” He pulled it back, rescinding the invitation. “But you know who is fun? Amber is a great deal of fun.” He held it out to the dancer directly across from him. “Aren’t you, Amber?”

The girl in question looked hungry, looked weary, looked as if she hadn’t had a choice in anything she’d been doing for quite a long while. When Amber inevitably knelt in front of Louis, Fulvia excused herself, amid Louis’ jeers, saying she needed to check on the beer taps.

She ran into the bathroom, disgusted and upset, her breathing ragged and her hands shaking, but this time, it wasn’t because of the drink.

“Hey, hey, hey…are you okay?” Darcy emerged from one of the stalls. She was still in her street clothes, her shift not starting for another hour.

Fulvia composed herself, sniffed and straightened. “Fine. I’m fine.” She blew her nose. “Sorry.”

“Oh please, sweetie,” Darcy washed her hands. “No one is fine here, it’s okay to admit it.”

“I’m sorry, I just…” Her voice cracked a bit, and Darcy went in for a hug.

“You’ll get used to Louis, I promise. Or learn how to handle him. Just stay away from his lunchtime girls and you’ll be fine.”

“Who _are_ those girls?”

Darcy pouted into the mirror, teasing her hair with her fingers. “His new recruits. He says the real dancers, like me, are too expensive. So, as people quit or get fired, he’s replacing them with a load of underage meth-heads who look like shit, but work for nothing. Well, next-to-nothing.”

Fulvia’s eyes narrowed. “Underage?”

Darcy nodded, curtly. “Can you believe it? I heard Jemma tell Amber that she was in Year 10.”

“Christ, they’re babies…” Fulvia said, barely a whisper. “We have to tell someone.”

“I have!” The dancer said, “One of my regulars is with the Met, and I told him - they even tried raiding the place a few times, but every time, someone tips Louis off and the girls just disappear.” Darcy made a gesture with her hands and turned back to the mirror to apply lipstick.

Fulvia let out a bitter sigh. “I can’t believe I used to be married to someone who would do things like that!”

Darcy pulled back, suddenly stricken. “Bloody hell. You’re his ex? Look, please don’t tell him that I—“

Fulvia snorted. “Don’t worry about it, sweetie, I think he’s utter shite as well. Believe me, I’m not telling anyone anything..”

 

 

****

Both Sherlock and John’s phones chimed as the cab pulled into the parking lot outside The LookOut in Hyde Park, the venue for Teddy James’ Wednesday wedding shoot.

**FYI, Fulvia White still missing, we’ve got investigators at the pub and her flat, we’ll keep you posted. GL**

John texted his thanks back, and looked to Sherlock. “I don’t feel good about this thing with Fulvia.”

“One crime at a time, John,” Sherlock said, and exited the cab. “Let’s see what Lestrade’s people uncover. In the meantime, it appears that the wedding has ended without us.”

The LookOut was an eco-friendly event space located in a secluded garden in Hyde Park, and Sherlock looked dismissively at the environmentally-conscious decorations currently being removed by the wedding planner and her assistants.

“Clearly, no rice was thrown at this wedding,” he sniffed.

John turned. “Rice?”

“No, I’ve no doubt there were -- what? Sparklers? Bubbles? -- instead.” He inspected the front walkway. “Bubbles, then, no evidence of ash.”

“What are you nattering on about?” John asked, searching the crowd of venue workers for a familiar face.

“A myth. Ecologically-minded people refuse to throw rice at weddings because of birds.” Sherlock explained. “They think birds will explode if they eat grains of uncooked rice. Complete nonsense, of course. Rice – wild rice – is actually a dietary staple for many birds.”

John considered this. “Good to know.”

“Sherlock! John!” From across the room, Lily’s voice rang out. She stood in the middle of a small arsenal of video equipment – lights and cables, some of which were already neatly coiled and some of which remained in a messy-looking tangle. She gestured them over. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” said Sherlock.

“Teddy had a wedding this morning – he’s a videographer, and I had some free time, so I thought I might come along and help out.” She pushed he hair behind her ears and picked up a cable, coiling it slowly, over and under.

“Where’s Victor?” John asked, squinting in the sun.

“Victor?” She paused, and then gave a deliberate shrug. “I don’t know. Haven’t seen him since last night. Honestly, I just assumed he was with you two.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “Listen, Lily, we need to talk to you and Teddy about something.”

“Sure,” she said, somewhat warily. “I’ll get him and meet you outside, yeah? We can walk through the garden.”

Minutes later, the quartet of Lily and Teddy, Sherlock and John, were marching along the garden path together.

“We identified the third fingerprint.” Sherlock said, quietly, and everyone stopped walking.

“Yeah?” Lily asked, casually. “Whose was it?”

“Come now, do we have to play this game?” Sherlock chided.

Teddy ran a hand through his hair. “You found mine, didn’t you? That’s why you came here today.”

“Give the man a prize.” Sherlock said softly.

Lily crossed her arms in front of her. “Doesn’t get you any farther than you were before. We _all_ touched the gun before it was stolen. Teddy, me, Victor, all of us. Big deal. Why don’t you stop messing with the prints and start focusing on Chad or Louis or whatever he’s calling himself now? You said that’s what you were going to do!”

“Chad Wilson, aka Louis Lloyd, has been eliminated as a suspect, effective as of last night.”

Lily’s jaw dropped, and then she paused again, and smiled. “Very funny, Sherlock. That’s not even possible.”

“No, I’m afraid it’s true, Lily.” John replied, his face serious. “Apparently he was busy committing another murder up in Merseyside at the time that Melinda was shot. The evidence was compelling.”

Lily’s face paled, and her legs went out from under her, for a moment. She gripped Teddy’s arm for support. For his part, Teddy recovered the quickest.

“So, what does that mean?” he asked.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “It means that we are re-focusing our investigation on the only piece of physical evidence currently in our possession, which is the gun and its four fingerprints.”

“So the investigation is back on us?” Lily asked, angrily.

“If you’d tell us who the fourth fingerprint belongs to, I’ll be happy to focus on that particular suspect, at least initially, if you prefer.”

“Well, obviously, the fourth print belongs to the bloody murderer, you worthless pieces of—“

“Lily!” Interrupted Teddy, firmly. “Enough.” He turned back to Sherlock and John. “Obviously this is a highly emotional time for Lily.”

“Obviously. One of the three of you will likely be charged with murder, and at first glance, it’s really a toss-up, isn’t it?” Sherlock challenged.

Teddy held his ground. “Look, I don’t know how many times I can tell you that we didn’t do it.”

John intervened. “It’s not up to you to tell us that. It’s up to you to tell us every fact that you can think of that might help us exonerate you, any piece of evidence that might explain what was happening in Melinda’s life at the time of death.”

Teddy nodded, slowly. “Yeah, okay. That’s a good way to look at it. We’ll sift through things and see what we can come up with. In the meantime?”

“In the meantime, our investigation moves forward. I expect we may need to speak further with you both, and Victor, sometime soon, pending arrival of some information.” Sherlock checked his phone. “Which may be arriving as soon as early this evening. Could we meet later tonight?”

“At the Yard?”

“I don’t see any need to involve the police just yet.” Sherlock said, the words “just yet” given added punch.

“Fine,” Lily spat. “But I want a lawyer this time. If you’re using words like ‘suspect’ I think we all need one. I’ll let you know when I can get everyone together.”

“Fair enough,” said John. “We’ll wait for your call.”

 

****

Sherlock and John made another unscheduled stop, the third of the afternoon, on the way back from Hyde Park. They stopped at The 12 Bar Club.

Anton, the owner, was stocking beer in the coolers behind the bar when they walked in. “Sherlock!” He said, coming around to the front of the counter. “Had a feeling you’d show up here today.” He held out his hand for a shake.

“Good to see you again.” Sherlock accepted it, and pulled him into him, for a slap on the shoulder. “Anton, this is John,” he said and tilted his head upwards. “Is he here?”

He sighed. “Spent the night at my flat,” he explained, but held up his hands, as if proclaiming innocence. “On the _couch_ , let’s be quite clear. Said he didn’t want to go home and that – Lily? –  had kicked him out of hers? Name ring a bell?”

“Yeah, we know her.” John said, echoing the bar owner’s sigh.

“Anyway, he asked if he could hang out here until the bar opened. What am I gonna do, say no?” 

“He upstairs, then?”

“Yeah. Hey –“ He pulled a plate out from behind the bar. “Give this to him, will you? He hasn’t eaten.”

“Will do.”

Upstairs in the 12 Bar balcony, at their usual table, Victor sat slumped over a glass of Jack, looking rough.

Sherlock prodded him in the shoulder. “Victor! Wake up!”

The American startled awake, as John slid the plate of food in front of him. He groaned and pushed it away. “You tryin’ to kill me? Fuck…” He looked up, and tried to focus on the faces in front of him. “Rabbit? Johnny? What’re…what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be saving the day.”

“John?” Sherlock said.

“On it.” John replied, knowing what the other meant without it needing to be said. He sat down beside Victor, checked his pulse, looked into his eyes. “Yeah, well you’re not exactly where you’re supposed to be, either, are you?” He looked up at Sherlock. “He’s fine. Just pickled.”

“I fucked up, John,” Victor said, hand on his. “With the gun. Lily blames me...”

John licked his lips, seeing an opportunity. “Blames you for what, Victor?”

“For…everything, man. For not wiping off the prints before the gun was stolen. For not stopping Chad.”

Sherlock sat down opposite John. “It wasn’t Chad, Victor. He _couldn’t_ have done it.”

Victor looked up. “Tricky, Rabbit, isn’t it? Tricky case…you were always best at the tricky ones…” He looked to John, on his other side. “That and talking people out of their pants. Well,” he laughed, pointing at John. “ _You_ know…”

Sherlock handed him half of Anton’s sandwich. “Okay, that’s about enough of that. Eat this, then we’ll get you into a cab and into your own bed.”

 

 

****

Getting Victor up the stairs to his flat proved to be more of a challenge than either man has anticipated, Victor outweighing the both of them by a good deal, plus there had been a fair amount of groping and grappling all along the way, on Victor’s part, at least.  Happily for all parties, the Yank had held off vomiting until he was safely tucked away in his own bathroom, and once that was done and he was all cleaned up, he fell seamlessly into his bed and into a soundless sleep.

Sherlock pulled the door closed.

“It’s kind of weird being here after seeing it on the surveillance monitor,” John said, looking around the flat. “Nicer than it looked on TV.” He curiously looked through the bookshelves, at the random knickknacks on the tables, at the messy stack of CDs that threatened to fall at any moment.

Sherlock smiled. “You remember? Before mp3s? You could learn everything you needed to know about someone just by looking at their CD collection.” He picked up one jewel case. “God, haven’t thought about this one in forever…” His long fingers nimbly plucked at the stereo’s CD player, inserting the disc.

“Sherlock, don’t – you’ll wake him!”

The detective laughed. “Victor? He’s practically comatose. You saw him. Nothing’s going to wake him up for hours.”

“Did he do it, Sherlock?” John’s face went suddenly serious. “If it wasn’t Chad, and Victor said it was, then it has to be Victor, right? It would certainly explain the drinking binge…”

“Victor has never needed an excuse to binge, John.” Sherlock let the first question hang in the air.

John sighed, and looked out the window, onto the street below. On the stereo, the CD began to play, and Sherlock closed his eyes, a half-smile on his face, enjoying the music before his phone interrupted, chiming a text. He looked at it, and typed a response. “Oh, brilliant!”

“Good news?” John asked, turning

“Yes, Beatrix. She’s on her way.”

“She’s coming here?”

“Yes, and with good news, it looks like.” Sherlock grabbed John by the waist. “Victor’s passed out, Bea won’t be here for another thirty minutes at least…”

“Yes, and you have literally slept with all of the people in that sentence, so again, who’s the slut now?” Even as he said it, though, John bent his head, yielding to Sherlock’s tongue and teeth and dammit, why did he have to feel so good?

“Can it even be considered promiscuity anymore when you’re no longer a teenager?”

“You would have been no use to me as a teenager. All nervous, heart racing. _Rabbit._ I prefer you like this.”

“My heart’s still racing, John.” Sherlock pulled John’s hand to his chest, to his heart, above skin and bone and flesh, he felt it pound.

“I know, I can feel it. Fuck…stop that.” John squirmed, as Sherlock set about his undoing.

“Why should I stop? You like it.” That voice, so persuasive…

“Because I don’t want it to be that easy.” Fingers slipping inside John’s jeans, slipping along his hips, pulling down the fabric, oh god…

“You don’t want to be that easy? Are we still yammering on about promiscuity? We’re both nigh-on to middle age, John…”

John’s hand pushed him away. “No, I don’t want _it_ to be that easy _for you_.”

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock groaned, stopping mid-grope. “Easy for me to do what?”

“Make me…”

“…cum?”

“Among other things.” John sat up. “You called me your partner today.”

Sherlock protested. “You said it to the cabbie first!”

“In-in a matter of speaking. Sort of.” John said. “Look, Sherlock, zero-to-sixty in bed, fine. Zero-to-sixty in love, different story.”

“Bit callous, that.” Sherlock said, lifting John’s hand, running his lips along each knuckle. “And I never said love. That’s the first either of us has said that word.”

“Fine.” John shifted to face him. “Can I explain something?”

“Gladly, I’m all ears!”

“Alright, good. Look, I’m never the smartest guy in the room. I wasn’t before you, and I’m certainly not whenever I’m around you, so I’m not used to this sort of thing. In this one, rare instance, though, when it comes to relationships, I am actually smarter than you.“

Sherlock scowled, but remained, and leaned his elbow on the sofa, hand up to his chin, working the same nervous flicker John had seen early on in the scene with Victor. He had his attention, and with Sherlock, that was half the battle.

John placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Easy, okay? It’s all good. I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

“So why bring up my abysmal dating record, John?”

“Because in this one instance I need to lead the way, in the flapping coat, with the cheekbones and you need to follow!” John said. “You want me, you like me, I think. But last night in the restaurant you claimed me as yours, and that’s just not how relationships work.”

“It worked with Alex!”

“Yeah, and that worked out so well!” John reached up to stroke Sherlock’s eyebrow before he could react. “Sherlock, I care about you. You are my best friend. And I’m not willing to put that friendship at risk to date you if it’s all going to fizzle out after a few months.”

“But it won’t! John…” Sherlock was very close to whinging.

John was firm. “You can’t just look at a person and call dibs, Sherlock. If this is going to be a lasting thing, we have to choose each other.”

“Fantastic. You know I choose you,” Sherlock said,  “So you must not want to choose me? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, goddammit!” John ran his hands through his hair. “Listen to me! If I thought for one moment that you’d given any of this more than a moment’s thought, I’d be planning our bloody wedding, Sherlock. But you haven’t. The truth is that we lived together for months and months, and outside of standing-in as random wank material – which is flattering, but not the point -- you never looked at me twice until Victor did, and that’s when my stock suddenly went up. You boys are worse than children when it comes to stealing each other’s toys.” He looked up, and rethought his statement. “Okay, I don’t consider myself a toy, exactly, but you know what I’m getting at.”

Sherlock considered John’s words. He couldn’t exactly deny them. Even the day Victor had returned, not even a week ago, he’d dismissed John as a viable playmate when Victor had asked, lumping him in with Mrs. Hudson, for fuck’s sake. “Yeah, okay, that’s fair.”

“So, here’s what I need, Sherlock, before I can choose you: I need you to answer one simple question for me.” John said, and held out a cautionary hand. “Before I tell you what that question is, I’m warning you, don’t answer now, not even if you think you know the answer, because the fact of the matter is, you don’t. In fact, you’re not even allowed to answer until…until this case is completely over and done with, at the earliest.”

Sherlock pouted, wanting this whole situation to be sorted on a much faster timeline. “Fine. More motivation for me to get to the end of this bloody case. What’s the question, John?”

“I want you to tell me one thing: “ John exhaled, slowly. “Why me?”

“Why you?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Oh, so, this is just an ego-stroke, then?”

“Jesus, yeah, that’s what I’m after.” John rolled his eyes. “No, Sherlock. I’m not after flattery, or, or glad-handing or any other bullshit. And I know you, Sherlock – don’t think you can game this, either. Don’t just tell me what you think I want to hear, alright?”

“Alright.” Sherlock agreed. “And once I give you my answer?”

John smiled. “Then we can talk about us becoming something more.”

Sherlock leaned his head on his arm, looking thoughtful. “So…until that time?”

“Until that time what?”

“Until that time,” Sherlock leaned in, “can we…kiss?”

And John kissed him, sweetly on the lips, eliciting an approving noise from the base of Sherlock’s throat.

“Can we…” Sherlock smirked, and edged his hips closer to John’s. “Can we hug?”

And John reached up, placing his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, to which Sherlock responded with another small moan.

“Can we…” Sherlock slipped his hands back inside John’s waistband and pulled him—

“Yes, god, fuck, Sherlock,” interrupted John, allowing himself to be pulled into Sherlock’s lap, and lifting so Sherlock might pull down his jeans and pants in one glorious pull. “We can do every…everything…except say we belong to one another…that…okay?”

Sherlock’s answer was lost, as his verbal contribution to their conversation devolved quickly into a series of throaty, desperate moans.

 

Twenty minutes later, it took Beatrix no less than four rings of the doorbell for Sherlock and John to finally break their clinch and let her inside...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> Can you hear that, kids? That’s the unmistakable sound of Johnlock coming down Main Street!  
> Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> \- Who knew that people [get married](http://www.almanac.com/content/weddings-customs-and-traditions%0A) on [Wednesdays](http://www.angelfire.com/tx/tranera/marriage.html)? 
> 
> \- Crystal Meth in the UK? [Yepper](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2548672/Crystal-Meth-arrived-Britain-Seizures-deadly-Breaking-Bad-drug-rise-400-cent-year.html)…
> 
> \- [The LookOut in Hyde Park](http://www.venuereservations.co.uk/venue/the-lookout) is a real place…
> 
> \- [Do birds explode if they eat wedding rice?](http://urbanlegends.about.com/od/birds/a/wedding_rice.htm)
> 
> \- What was the CD Sherlock played at Victor’s? Could be [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tAZcVkAPkZI&list=RDtAZcVkAPkZI), or [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CcxBPGZ94_M), or whatever back-in-the-day disc you think Sherlock might’ve missed…you decide!
> 
>  
> 
> Last Chapter before 221B Con -- I'm gonna be there, so if you are too, don’t be shy, come chat with me! 
> 
> See you lovelies next time! <3  
> vex.


	25. "I Owe You An Apology"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beatrix delivers more than one package, Fulvia learns some critical information, Lily storms out of yet another get-together and Victor has to piss…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Child Endangerment/Abuse

 

In the end, it was John who answered the door, which makes perfect sense when you think about it. After all, they were in _Sherlock’s_ friend’s flat, and it was _Sherlock’s_ bloody babysitter on the other side of the bloody door, of course it was _John_ that answered the door…

…because sometimes, the pout wins.

And this was definitely one of those times.

John buttoned his shirt and ran a hand through his hair, making it to the door looking relatively put together, the flush in his cheek betraying him, perhaps, but there was little he could do about that at this point. He opened the door.

Beatrix stood, her leather bag slung over one shoulder, Sherlock’s dry-cleaning over the other. She lowered her sunglasses and bit her lip, a teasing look. “Four rings. Busy, were you John? Naughty boys, the two of you…”

She surprised John with a buss on his blushing cheek and handed him the coat before he had a chance to utter a single word.

Sherlock rumbled from the other room, still half dressed. “How do you know there weren’t three of us being naughty, Bea? This is Victor’s flat, after all.”

She made her way into the sitting room. “Don’t be stupid, lovey. If it had been the three of you, no one would’ve answered the door.” She sat down on the couch beside him.

John followed her, and brandished the drycleaning. “She brought your coat.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yeah, I thought since she was coming by anyway—“

“—he’d be a right pain in the arse and have me run a domestic errand.” Beatrix said, finishing his sentence. She nudged him. “Say thank you, Sherlock.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” he said, most insincerely, and she pinched him, hard, on the arm, prompting an overly dramatic “Oww!”. John watched with amusement, realizing that – overlooking Bea and Sherlock’s sexual history for a moment -- this was very much what John imagined Sherlock would have been like with a sister. He could only muse on the impact that a sister like Beatrix might’ve had on the Holmes Brothers, as a whole.

She pulled a manila envelope from her bag and handed it to Sherlock. “A little light reading?”

Sherlock sat up, took the envelope and opened it eagerly.

 

 

 

 

****

Back at Player’s East, the only thing Louis Lloyd enjoyed more than being the alpha dog was sucking up to bigger alpha dogs that came into his circle.

“Who’s that?” Fulvia asked Darcy, as she poured vodka over ice, and splashed it with orange.

Louis was sitting at a table with a very big dog, indeed. Bodybuilder type, heavily tattooed, bleached hair, fake tan, teeth so bright that Fulvia was convinced they’d glow in the dark.

Darcy, currently on break between dances, snorted, “Someone you don’t want to meet if you ever owe anyone money.”

Fulvia pulled on the tap, dispensing two pints in quick succession. “Yeah, but who is he? Why is Louis kissing his arse?”

“Because that’s what Louis does best, isn’t it? Toady up to gangsters and thugs?” Darcy gritted, reaching for the water tap. Fulvia handed it to her, with a glass. “Cheers, thanks,” she said.

“No worries.” Fulvia said, and with a heavy sigh, Darcy went back to work. Fulvia turned back to her work, as well, pouring a shandy and placing it on a waitress’ tray. She exhaled. It was easy to get caught up in the familiar work, and for the split-second, forget that you were being held against your will, that you’d been forcibly taken from your home and were now, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner.

All she needed was a mobile phone, just to tell Jeremy she was safe. She wasn’t going to do anything stupid, she had every intention to play Louis’ game and keep her arse out of prison – but she just needed someone, anyone, to know that she was here, in case…well, she didn’t want to think of “in case”. She’d tried borrowing a phone from the waitresses, but Louis had confiscated staff phones this morning, citing it as a new club policy. For all his faults, Louis could be clever when he needed to be…

 _But not clever enough, really_ , Fulvia thought. She cut her eyes to a pair of businessmen at the far end of the bar, who were both fiddling with their iPhones. After all, Louis couldn’t confiscate _every_ device in the bar…

She turned her head to look at him, now on his second round of shots with the alphadog, his attention completely absorbed. It was time.

She moved to the end of the bar, and smiled cheerily at the businessmen. “So. Another round, gents?”

 

 

 

****

“Shiiiit,” Victor groaned, rolling over in his bed. His head felt thick, his stomach felt empty, and his mouth felt like the fucking Sahara…if the Sahara tasted like puke and bloody Jack Daniels.

Also, he had to piss.

He found that if he moved just slowly enough, he could stand up without his head spinning too badly, and on the way to the bathroom, he tried to sort together how exactly it was he’d managed to end up in his own bed. He remembered Anton ushering him up to the balcony at 12 Bar, he had a vague memory of eating a turkey sandwich that he really didn’t want, and oddly, he had a flash of John Watson’s perfect ass resting nicely in the palm of his hand.

 _So, Sherlock and John, then._ Victor thought, piecing together the memories. _They brought me home._

In the sitting room, his modest deduction was confirmed, an open CD jewel case, one of Sherlock’s favorites, had been left on top of the stereo. The sofa pillows were all out of place and the coffee table had been scooted just far enough away from the sofa to comfortably fit a kneeling Army Doctor. Victor grinned, imagining the scene, and shuffled into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. He drank it down, all at once, and regretted it almost instantly, the cold water shocking his stomach, and it grumbled in response. The feeling, thankfully, passed…

 _Back to bed,_ he thought, not wanting to take any chances.

On the return trip through the sitting room, though, he saw something, something he hadn’t noticed before: a torn manila envelope sat on the end table. He raised his eyebrows and picked it up, curiously, turning it over in his hands. The envelope bore no stamp and no mailing address - whatever it was had been hand-delivered. That’s when he noticed the pre-printed return address: “UKVI”.

Adrenaline ran through Victor in an instant. He scrabbled for his mobile, and dialed a number from memory.

 

 

 

****

Lily’s phone vibrated in her purse, beneath the manicurist’s table, at her feet. She’d muted it before the wedding as a matter of course, and had forgotten to turn the ringer back on. The vibration went completely unnoticed.

Outside, though, nothing went unnoticed by Sherlock and John, who sat on a nearby bench and watched her steadily through the shop’s plate-glass window.

“How, exactly, did you know she’d be here?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Acrylic nail tips require weekly maintenance, to get them refilled, to avoid breakage or cracks. Last night, in the restaurant, it was clear she was long overdue for a visit. After that, it was just a simple matter of cross-referencing manicurists who handle acrylics with those found within a reasonable radius of her home and bingo.” Sherlock said, as if it were the most dreadfully obvious answer, ever.

John grinned to himself, not even wanting to know how his flatmate had become so knowledgeable about acrylic manicures...

Five minutes later, she exited the shop, nails still drying, and ran straight into the consulting detective and his blogger. She groaned. “Oh, no – I told you I would talk to you later tonight, and with a lawyer.”

“And we can still do that, if you prefer.” Sherlock said, cutting his eyes most attractively her way as they continued to walk to the corner. “Of course, if we spoke now, it would be just us, without Teddy or Victor around to complicate matters. If we spoke with you now, it would be private.”

She considered his offer. “Didn’t you get enough of this at dinner last night? Separating Victor and I, good cop, bad cop, and hell – you’re not even cops. No thanks, I’ll think I’ll pass.”

Sherlock looked at John, who lifted his eyebrows meaningfully. Sherlock shook his head. John glared. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but paused on the pavement, and cleared his throat. “Oh, for god's sake. Lily, I…I don't say this often, but I…apparently...owe you an apology.” He said, which was definitely not what Lily had been expecting from the usually smug detective.

“That’s unexpected.”  She squinted, confused, but her confusion was short-lived,  turning quickly to smugness. “I mean, you have so much to apologise for, Sherlock, in our short acquaintance, I’m sure you hardly know where to begin.” She blew on her nails, to dry them, and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

“Well, why don’t I apologize over tea?”

She considered the invitation, and then nodded. “Fine. But you’re buying…”

She breezed past both boys, and led them in a brisk pace to her favorite spot for tea.

 

 

 

 

****

She flirted with the businessmen, trying to ease into the request by seeming friendly, normal and nice. The last thing Fulvia needed was for Louis to think that she was regaling her customers with desperate tales of her kidnapping. But just as she went to casually ask if she could use one of their phones, he was there: Louis.

“Hallo, mates – having a good time?” He said, wrapping a brotherly arm around each of the men. “You shouldn’t be wasting your time with this slag, though, not with the lovely Bianca in the room…oh, Bianca, love!” He spun them around, just as Bianca executed an upside-down spin around the pole, and looked over his shoulder to Fulvia, with a wink. “I think we might need to visit Miss Bianca in the VIP room, don’t you?” He asked, slapping both men on the shoulder. “On the house for new customers,” he said, and the businessmen were both on their feet, collecting their coats and drinks, and Louis made a point to personally collect their phones from the bar top. “Don’t want to forget these, guys,” he said. As they headed for the VIP room, Louis turned back for one moment. “Better luck next time, Ful,” he whispered, bitingly, before taking off with his “mates”.

It killed her, this. Even the smallest kindness, a simple phonecall, was being denied, and she realized in that moment that he’d never let her go. It would never, ever be over, and no matter what he promised her, she’d always find herself at his mercy, playing his game, living under his threats. She slumped behind the bar, and allowed herself one moment to cry, one moment to mourn the girl she’d been before Chad had begun pulling her strings, all those years ago – and then, carefully and practically, she shut it down entirely. She poured two shots for Ginger’s table and wiped away the tears before anyone could see them. She refilled the pretzel bowls and ran a rag along the top of the bar, making everything shine.

Fulvia would carry on. Because what else could she do?

 

 

 

****

 **Lil with you?** **VICTOR**

**Working. Try her at home? –tj**

**No luck, and she’s not answering her cell. VICTOR**

**News? Urgent? –tj**

**Sherlock’s been talking to Visas and Immigration. VICTOR**

**FUCK. -tj**

 

 

****

 

Secluded in a quiet corner of a nearly-empty tea shop, John and Sherlock settled in with Lily. They ordered their drinks, and when the waitress finally stepped away, their discussion began.

John watched, eagerly. He’d been given the briefest of rundowns as to what had been in Beatrix’s envelope, understood the general implications of it, understood why it had brought that singular look of satisfaction to Sherlock’s face, as well as why it had inspired both the hasty goodbye to Bea and the rushed cab ride to Islington, but he was still interested in hearing it spelled out in detail, with Sherlock's own flourishes.

Sherlock began with a nod toward Lily. “So. I owe you an apology for my behaviour last time I was at your house. Outing you in a public forum, even if it was just in front of friends, isn’t right.”

“Well, thank you, Sherlock.” She said, hesitantly.

“You’re welcome.” He said, pulling at his cuffs. “You see, at the time, I hadn’t realized that your addiction wasn’t entirely your fault, that it was, rather, a predisposition that had been systematically ingrained in you from an early age.”

Lily’s brow lifted.

Sherlock continued. “You see, during the course of this investigation, we received a random accusation, someone accused you of actually running drugs, but I didn’t realize it was anything more than a particularly vicious piece of gossip -- until last night.”

“Wait – running drugs, Sherlock, that’s not…who woul—“

Sherlock cut her protest short. “Last night at the restaurant, you wore a particular item of clothing…a silver shawl that I instantly recognized as not a shawl at all.”

She hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek, gone instantly steely.

Sherlock continued. “No, it wasn’t anything nearly so ordinary as that, was it, Lily? It was, in fact, a Malaysian samping, a waistcloth traditionally worn by those who engage in the martial art of Silat Melayu.”

“So, is that a crime, now? Owning a scarf?” Lily said, sounding for all the world like the sarcastic teenager that she very nearly was.

“No, but it made me wonder where you might’ve come across such a lovely garment, and it made me remember the accusation. Lot of drugs in Malaysia, after all…” Sherlock leaned forward. “It made me curious. So with the help of a very discreet friend, I took a small peek into your travel history.”

She paled. “Are you kidding me? Are you even allowed to do something like that?”

“God no, it’s entirely illegal,” said Sherlock. “But I’m just a consulting detective, entirely unofficial. What I found, though, was incredibly interesting. Do you want to know?”

She looked away, arms crossed in front of her. Her tea was going cold.

Sherlock removed a sheath of paper from his inside coat pocket. “According to UK Visas and Immigation, you were a very well-traveled child, Lily, starting with a few unremarkable class trips, a random summer holiday with your parents, nothing untoward or unexpected until you turned eight years old, and that’s when things got interesting.”

He turned the page, and lifted it to read. “From October 2001 through November 2002, you made seven different trips to Southeast Asia – Malaysia twice, Thailand four times, Singapore once, all accompanied by your father.”

“As I suspect you know, your father was aligned with the Lambeth gang, which was, at the time, tangentially aligned with a larger drugs syndicate – based on the frequency here, I’d suspect a Bangladeshi or Pakistani syndicate, but that’s conjecture. Doesn’t matter. What matters is, he’d been running drugs for Lambeth for months, his trips beautifully justified by his job at the import company -- but then 9-11 happened, and international travel became difficult. Everyone was on high alert, very bad time to be a drugs smuggler…”

Sherlock paused here to bite into a biscuit, the pause, John knew, built in strictly to heighten the drama. Oh, how his Consulting Detective enjoyed his drama…

“In fact, it wasn’t until some weeks later that he realized he had access to the best possible drug mule that anyone could ever imagine: a sweet, innocent British child, his very own lovely, blue-eyed baby daughter, first in her class and last to be suspected.”

Lily backed away from the table. “Okay, I’m not going to respond to any of this without a lawyer.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You doesn’t need to. I can see in your eyes. Did you even know what he was doing? Did he call it a game? Strap the packets inside your clothing? Tape them to your skin? Putting your life and freedom in danger for a couple thousand quid a trip…” Sherlock’s voice went thin and brittle. “He was a monster!”

“Sherlock,” John cautioned, and placed a hand on his arm, surprised by the passion in Sherlock’s voice. He seemed entirely moved by 8-year-old Lily’s situation, and he stared at her with what seemed to be actual empathy.

As for the grown Lily, she stared back, and layers peeled back from behind her eyes.

“No, let him talk. He’s right.” Lily said, quietly. She turned to Sherlock, and exhaled a long, shaky breath. “He was – is – a monster. And you’re right, he told me it was a game. Told me it was something they played at his work, that it was bundles of sugar and that whoever came home with their bundles intact was the winner. He put a false pocket in my backpack. He would strap it inside the soles of my shoes, inside my underpants. One time, he put some into a bunch of small baggies and tried to get me to swallow them, but I gagged, couldn’t get a single one down, nearly threw up. It didn’t take long for me to realize what the game really was. I mean, I was eight. I was old enough to understand what was happening.”

“Jesus…” John reeled, his mind running to all the worst-case scenarios, how easily she could’ve ingested the drugs, the harsh foreign laws, the consequences if she’d been caught.

Sherlock leaned forward, his voice quiet. “So, when did the photographs begin?”

John wrinkled his brow, confused. He followed Sherlock’s gaze to Lily.

Lily gave a bitter laugh. “You’re not as clever as you think, Rabbit - there weren’t any photographs. No, it was always videotapes with Chad. Said it was part of the game, that the videotape was proof that we did it, for the contest back at work.”

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together. “It was proof, alright, but not for a contest.”

Lily nodded, and went on to explain how she had been told to stand in front of the camera, recite her name and her age and her address, and show where the “sugar” had been hidden – open her pack, lift her shirt, show the packages – proof of her participation in both the crime and in her complicity in deception.

“And she saw the tapes? Of course!” Sherlock leaned back, nodding. “It’s so obvious. You’d have to be thick not to see it!”

“Sorry, who’s ‘she’?” John asked, lagging behind Sherlock’s express train of thought.

“Melinda Wilson. The reason Mel stayed quiet about Louis, the reason she gave him her fortune and the real reason behind the break in at Fulvia’s pub. It was all to protect Lily.” Sherlock’s gestures became animated. “Mel found out about Chad’s drug smuggling and gave him the ultimatum which ended in their divorce – but at the time, she hadn’t known about Lily’s involvement – no, otherwise she would have had him arrested, made some noise, demanded some sort of recompense. But she didn’t, so she didn’t know. And, in fact, my bet is, she didn’t find out until Chad began blackmailing her, after he resurfaced.”

“Now, _there's_ a smart bunny.” Lily said. “Chad…showed up one night, six months after his disappearance, scared the shit out of us, thought Mum was going to have a heart attack. He was out of money, he was on the run, and when she showed him the door, he…showed her the tapes. Said if we didn’t help him, he’d take them to the police.”

“But you were a child.” John said, confused. “They couldn’t possibly think that you were responsible.”

“No,” said Lily. “But Mum thought they might take me away from her if the tapes came out, that she might go to prison.”

John shook his head. “What could possibly implicate her in all of this?”

Lily’s mouth had become a tight, thin line. “I could. My 8-year-old self. Chad always made me end the videos in the same way. By telling Mummy I loved her and that I’d be home soon.”

 

 

 

****

Darcy’s shift ended, and on her way out, she stopped – barely hesitating, really – at the bar. “We need to talk. Ladies room?”

Fulvia nodded furtively, reflexively looking over her shoulder, locating Louis, who was busy stroking the thigh of one of the lunchtime crew. The barmaid waited long enough to finish her smoke and headed for the loo.

“Hey, where are you going?” Shouted Louis at her, from across the bar.

“I have to go to the head.”

He waved his hand, irritated. “Five minutes, you bitch, not a minute longer.”

Thirty seconds later, she leaned against the countertop of the ladies’ room sink, and lit another cigarette. “Jesus,” Fulvia said. “I swear to fuck, he wasn’t this psychotic when we were married. Apparently I’m on a timer.”

“It’s okay – I’ll be quick.” Darcy turned to face her, her voice serious. “Listen, I’m not long for this place – don’t tell Louis, but I’m quitting at the end of the week. I don’t know why you’re here, or if you even have a choice. Since we’re talking about Louis, I’m guessing you don’t. But if you’re his ex, you need to know that things have sort of ratcheted up here recently. All these thugs started hanging around, and I guess you know about the murder charge?”

“Yeah, his first wife,” Fulvia nodded, “but he says he’s being framed.”

“Right,” Darcy said. “By his daughter, right?”

“Yeah. My stepdaughter, Lily.”

“Shit.” Darcy exhaled, and bit her lip, staring into Fulvia’s face. “Okay, I have to, I have to tell you...”

“Tell me what?”

“As Lily’s stepmother,” Darcy said, brow wrinkled with worry, “You should know. Someone should know.”

“Should know what?”

Darcy locked eyes with her. “This afternoon, Louis went into the VIP room with that bodybuilder guy. They got high and fucked around with the lunchtime crew, but when they were done, when the girls had left, they stayed. I went in with a client and…Louis…I don’t know if he forgot I was there or if he thought I couldn’t hear over the music, but…”

“But what? I mean, what? Is he starting some new scheme?”

“I wish it was that simple.” Darcy was still, serious. “The fact of the matter was that he…they seemed to be discussing your stepdaughter’s execution.”

“No,” Fulvia said, shaking her head. “No, you must’ve misunderstood. Louis would never…”

“The bodybuilder’s with Southall Mob.” Darcy said, with emphasis. “You know them?”

Of course Fulvia knew Southall – and now she understood: the hit Louis had done with the team up north, he’d done with Southall. An upgrade from Lambeth, certainly, bigger team, longer reach, more frightening reputation. Easily capable of carrying off a simple hit on a simple girl.

“Yeah,” she said, her throat going tight. “Yes, I know Southall.”

“Fulvia,” Darcy said quietly, and put her hand on Fulvia’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “They were negotiating a price.”

 

 

 

****

"Over the next, what? Seven years? Chad took every penny spare penny we had. He took her trust fund first, and just when that was about to run out, the insurance money came through with the Death in Absentia confirmation. Chad got all of that, too.”

“And so, when Mel had Victor crack Fulvia’s safe?” John asked.

“She really just wanted the videotapes.” Sherlock replied.

Lily just lifted her shoulder, the barest acknowledgement of a shrug. “We ended up burning the tapes in the barbecue grill out back.”

John poured more tea. “That had to have felt good. Been a relief.”

“It was a good day,” she nodded. “And then we were robbed and they took the gun and my mother was murdered.” Lily interrupted, spitting it out quickly, angry, bitterly. “It was all for fucking nothing.”

“The tapes were destroyed, Lil,” John said. “That’s not nothing.”

“Doesn’t matter. He killed her in the end, didn’t he.”

“I don’t know - you tell me.” Sherlock said, reaching across the table for her wrist. “Did he?”

She went immediately stony, and pulled her arm out from under his, choosing instead to cross her own arms in front of her.

John chose to back off a bit, refocus the discussion on something perhaps not quite so heated. Play the good cop, as always. “So, perhaps you can help us with some other questions we’ve run into?”

“Why do you even have questions, though?” She said, snarkily. “Thought the genius here was supposed to be able to read my mind.”

Sherlock scowled, but John laughed. “He very nearly can. As his flatmate, I can tell you, it’s terrifying.”

Lily smiled. It was something. “Alright, I totally know what you’re doing here, but I’m tired of fighting. What do you want to know?”

John grinned. “Okay, settle a debate we’ve been having. According to your testimony, yours and Teddy’s, actually, Teddy James was your Mom’s boyfriend. But we have a witness who says that he’s actually your boyfriend, and then a third says you’re actually dating Victor. Who’s right?”

“God, Victor? I wouldn’t touch him with yours…is that really what you boys get up to in the fingerprint lab? Such gossips.” She broke a biscuit into two, dunked one piece into her tea. “As for Teddy, he’s a family friend.”

“A family friend who was meeting your mom for mid-day assignations in shady hotels?” Sherlock asked, pointedly. “While you were across the hall, leaving scratch marks on the neck of Mister ‘I-Wouldn’t-Touch-Him-With-Yours’?”

Her temper flared, and she turned to John. “Can you please put a leash on him?”

“Actually, it goes the other way ‘round,” murmured Sherlock, eliciting another incredulous glare from John’s side of the table.

“Ignore him, Lily, please.” John said, and the detective pouted, retreating back inside his coat. John turned back to Lily. “Although, I have been curious about that. Why were you all at the hotel?”

“Officially, I wasn’t at the hotel, remember? Victor was there with an ‘unknown female’ who slipped out immediately after the trouble. But I can tell you that everyone that was there, was there to protect Mum.”

John stirred his tea, “Okay, but why was she there?”

Lily stretched out her palms on the table, as if examining at her new manicure. “Look. Three days before Mum was killed, Chad called and asked to arrange a meeting with Mum, to negotiate new terms. I know because I was the one who picked up the phone. I talked to him. He picked the hotel, he picked the time, and we were there.”

John marveled. “Are you saying he scheduled this murder?”

“I know he scheduled this meeting. I believe he scheduled it to murder my mum.”

“But he was hours away from the hotel when the crime was committed!” Sherlock said, frustrated.

“So, maybe his plans changed?” John said, grasping at straws.

“That’s one answer,” said Sherlock. “Another answer is that she’s lying about the phone call, in which case, Chad really isn’t involved in the slightest.”

Lily opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out.

“It all comes down to Victor, though, doesn’t it?” John said. “In the end, the meeting doesn’t matter, it’s just who Victor saw pull the trigger, or who he thought he saw.”

“In the end, the only people we know were there, and who all had fingerprints on that gun were Lily, Teddy and Victor. “ Sherlock said, counting out on his fingers. “Unless something earth-shattering comes from identifying that fourth print, I’d say that one of those three did it. And I’m sorry to say, but that includes you, Lily.”

“But I wasn’t even officially there!” She hissed. “And neither myself, nor Teddy were in that hallway when everything went down.” She picked up her bag in a huff, smudging one of her nails as she did. “You want my armchair detection? If it’s not Chad, if you can’t make this stick to that bastard, Sherlock, then it’s going to stick to Victor. He was the only one in that hallway, and he’s the only person on God’s green earth who really knows who killed my Mum!”

She left the restaurant then, and Sherlock, more than a little bit shellshocked by Lily’s bold statement, asked for the bill.

 

  

 

****

The cab ride home was quiet.

When they got back to 221B, it was early still, just barely dinner time, and on a usual day, they would’ve ordered takeaway, chattered about the case, watched crap telly.

But a usual day didn’t end with the sad story of a mistreated girl, with a murdered mother, with the seemingly inevitable conviction of their friend, Victor Trevor, looming on the horizon.

And so, upon arriving at Baker Street on this day, they opened the door, wordlessly, climbed the 17 steps and entered the flat. Sherlock hung his coat and scarf, John toed off his shoes, and in the sitting room, instead of falling into their chairs or booting up their laptops, they kept moving, through on into the kitchen. Once there, instead of stopping to make tea or checking the mold growth on the fingers in the microwave, they kept moving, through on into the hallway and down to Sherlock’s room, where they collapsed onto the bed, Sherlock spooning John, his long limbs curving around John, his John, protecting him, and John shut his eyes, closing himself off from the world outside this home, this room, this bed, even if only for a few hours.

They would both sleep straight on like that until the next morning…

 

 

 

 

****

…when they would be awakened by the chimes of both of their cellphones, Sleepy hands shot out for their devices, which both read:

**POST MORTEM BAN ON MELINDA WILSON LIFTED, as of 8am this morning. Thought you might like to know. MH**

“I know I’m not one prone to grand romantic propositions, John,” Sherlock said, his voice graveled and heavy with sleep. “But would you care to join me for an post mortem today?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> Gawd, hours late, but that’s what happens when you end up re-writing half of the garbled shit you wrote the night before. I swear to god, I’m still catching up on sleep from the Con!  
> Plotty-mcplot-plot, I know, but so much progress, I’m flush with storyline! 
> 
> \- Traveling to the UK? Check in with [Beatrix’s office](https://www.gov.uk/government/organisations/uk-visas-and-immigration)!
> 
> \- [An Introduction to Silat Melayu](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Silat_Melayu) and gawk at some [gorgeous sampings](http://www.google.com/search?q=samping+silat&client=safari&rls=en&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=6CpMU4bLKZDQsQTUl4GACw&ved=0CDEQsAQ) (this was [this Chapter’s Follower Tease on Tumblr](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/post/82619005862/follower-tease-for-chapter-25-of-the-rabbit), they got this pic as a hint last night!) 
> 
> \- Is this where Sherlock learned about [Acrylic Nails](http://skincare.lovetoknow.com/Caring_for_Acrylic_Nails)?
> 
> \- [The only things I know about gangs in London, I learned about on Wikipedia…](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gangs_in_the_United_Kingdom#London)
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Thanks, as always, for your incredible support in comments, kudos, e-mails and messages on Tumblr! You are all, collectively, the best!
> 
> Oh – and only 5 more bookmarks until this fic gets a STAR! (And yeah, I don’t know why that’s so exciting to me, it just is!)
> 
> ****EDITED TO ADD: WHoo-HoO! You guys are fantastic! "Rabbit" earned its star!!! Seriously, how sweet are you guys for bookmarking my way up today? I LURVE EVERYONE IN THIS BAR!!!****
> 
> By the way -- [Sketchybadger](http://sketchybadger.tumblr.com/) from Tumblr, who is a friend and serves as a spot-Britpicker for me from time to time is SUPER AWESOME and drew "The Rabbit Revealed"'s very first fan illustration!!! As soon as I can figure out how to do it, I'll post it here, because it's cool as shit! (Two words: 1) Victor. 2) Chopsticks.)
> 
> One last thing, loveys -- sharp-eyed readers may have noticed that the final chapter count increased by one with this posting. Did some reorganization of plotty stuff and it pushed into an added chapter! Yay!
> 
> <3  
> vex.


	26. "The Fourth Print"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a great day for an post mortem, everybody – and Fulvia catches a fucking break, for once.

 

They arrived at the morgue before Molly had properly opened the office, having scrambled through showers and grappled on clothes, one hailing a cab while the other was still hopping down the 17 steps, putting on his left shoe.

And the whole way, Sherlock had been smiling.

“Good morning, Molly!” He said, pushing his way through the double doors, his face plastered with his second most-charming smile (which was, in fact, his actual smile, for the record). John followed behind.

“Morning, Molls. Breakfast?” He handed her the cardboard flat that held a large coffee and a container of yogurt with granola, a last-minute remembered thank-you for calling them this morning.  Ever since their last meeting, John felt a certain sense of responsibility for Molly, another duckling that worked to hard and ate too little. She and Sherlock had more in common than they thought, he realised.

“Oh, that’s – really nice, John.  I’d meant to grab something on the way in, but ran out of time.” He smiled as she eagerly dug into the yogurt container.

“Give me credit as well,” Sherlock said, flashing jealous. “I picked out the flavor, you know. If it had been left up to John, he would’ve gotten you…” He made a face. “…vanilla.”

Molly grinned. “Thank you, too, Sherlock. Strawberry is my favorite.”

“ _I_ know.” Sherlock said, pointedly, to John, while Molly looked pleasantly surprised.

John rolled his eyes. He nodded towards the pile of folders on Molly’s desk. “So. She changed her mind?”

“I was just gobsmacked!” Molly replied. “I mean, she’s lucky. If the crematorium had gotten their act together earlier, there wouldn’t be anything left to perform a post mortem on!” She slid a folder in front of the boys. “Lily Wilson rescinded the ban last night. The paperwork was rushed, the funeral home was notified, all in the span of 12 hours.”

John opened the file, flipped to the back of the document at the top of the pile. “Cites a change in religious beliefs.”

“More like a change in our beliefs…” Sherlock murmured over his shoulder, into John’s ear, their proximity very…close.

“Clearly,” John agreed. “The minute we tied Lily to the drugs…”

“…her belief in God underwent a sea-change.” Sherlock finished, “Which makes me curious….Molly?”

“Yeah?” Molly answered, trying to pull her gaze away from the sight of Sherlock’s hand, casually pressed against John’s lower back, a fact that neither of the gentlemen seemed to register as out-of-the-ordinary. “Um, yes?”

“Is Dennis here?” Sherlock’s voice dripped with venom. He and the pathologist had tangled on more than one occasion, and the detective viewed him as a necessary evil. As a lab tech, Molly was not allowed to conduct actual autopsies alone, and Sherlock wasn’t legally allowed to participate in them at all, so Melinda’s post mortem would have to wait for Dennis.

“I’m to prep her now, and Dennis will be down at ten for the actual procedure.” Molly explained. “I’ve already told him that the Yard would like you to view the procedure.”

“Why Ms. Hooper,” Sherlock said, shooting her a sly grin. “You’ve received no such call from Lestrade, have you?”

“Shhh.” She lifted her finger to her lips and then pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll never tell.” She stood, and cocked her head to the both of them. “Come on. Scrub up, the both of you, and you can help me prep her.”

She crossed into the exam room and Sherlock and John shared an appreciative, slightly astonished look before following her. Molly Hooper taking the initiative? This was indeed new…

 

 

 

*****

 

“We don’t open until eleven.”

Jeremy said over his shoulder, at the sound of the pub door opening, the silhouetted figure letting in the early morning sunshine.

“Are you Jeremy?”

He turned away from the stacks of cardboard cases and took in the sight of the loveliest girl -  no, _woman_ \- he’d ever seen. “Um, yeah. I-I mean, technically we don’t open until eleven, but I can get something started on the grill if you’re hungry…”

Darcy smiled. Spend too much time in the company of men who have paid to stare at you in great, greedy eyefuls, and you forget the appeal of a shy glance. “I’m not here to eat, Jeremy. I’ve got a message from Fulvia.”

“Fulvia?” he asked, and hopped the bar, vaulting it easily, the muscles in his arms a singular benefit of the job --  a benefit that didn’t escape Darcy for a single second. Poor thing looked distraught. “Do you know where she is? I mean, Sit down, please!”

He pulled out a chair for her at a nearby table, another fact that did not escape her, as he continued with his questions, sliding in beside her. “Where is she? Is she okay?”

“She’s not in any immediate danger.” Darcy said. “She wanted me to let you know that she’s come to an arrangement with Louis. She’s working at his club for the next month or so and she’ll be fine. She just wanted you to know where she was. That’s her official message to you.” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her coat. “The _unofficial_ message is from me, and that’s that Louis is an arsehole and there was no arrangement, short of Louis kidnapping her and threatening to turn her in to the police if she refused.”

“I’ll fucking kill him!”

“Easy, tough guy.” She purred. “Let’s not go off half-cocked. We can help her, but we need to play this smart.”

“Okay, we’ll play this smart.” Jeremy gritted, crossing his arms. “And _then_ I’ll kill him.”

 

 

 

****

Louis unlocked the guest bedroom door, yanking the padlock open and whistling as he did. “Rise and shine, you old minge!” He pulled open the window shades. “You’ve got 20 minutes,” he said, and stomped out the door.

Fulvia foggily sat up, the back of her eyes aching from lack of sleep, her night having been spent worrying about escape, about prison and about what Darcy had told her about Louis’ plans for Lily.

 _If she’d even overheard them correctly_ , Fulvia thought to herself. Who knows what Darcy misunderstood in the thump-thump of the VIP room?

She took a quick shower, brushed her teeth and pulled herself together in the limited time he’d given her. Breakfast would be catch-as-catch-can with whatever was in the fridge at the club from last night’s buffet, but there would be coffee, and liquor, as needed.

But not yet.

She needed to be clear-headed.

In the car, he locked her door. The radio played some oldie that she hadn’t liked the first time around. She lit a cigarette and he allowed her to crack her window.

“Heard anything about the investigation?” 

“Which one?”

“Mel’s murder.”

He grunted.

“You still a suspect, then?”

“Not according to your little faggot detectives,” he smiled, broadly. “Did you know they were poofters, Ful? Gave me the side eye, the both of ‘em, the whole time I was there.”

 _Completely fucking deluded_ , she thought, as she tore at the foil in her cigarette pack. “So, so if not…you, who?”

“Well, Lily, innit? Has to be. Maybe that Teddy of hers, but she’s in there somewhere. Otherwise my name wouldn’t be involved in any of this.” He lit his own cigarette then, gritting it between bared teeth as he fished his lighter out of his jeans pocket. “She’ll regret it, you can count on that.”

Fulvia turned to look at him, at his profile, as he continued to drive. “You can’t know that,” she said, in very measured tones, not looking to work him up, “Even if she did try and set you up, you can’t make her regret anything.”

“Wanna bet?” He said, flipping the lighter in the palm of his hands. “With the right friends, love, I can make that little bitch regret being born,” he flared the lighter, “Make her regret it right up until the moment she dies.”

“What exactly are you saying, Louis?” Fulvia’s jaw trembled, but Louis never noticed her tells.

He smiled. “I’m saying, love, that if my bitch of a daughter owes you anything, you’d do well to have someone collect it before 7pm tonight.”

 

 

 

****

Sherlock and John scrubbed up in the surgical sinks at the entryway into the post mortem room while Molly transported Melinda to the table.

John soaped his wrists and forearms liberally. “Allowing the post mortem means there’s something Lily wants us to see, yeah?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded, ducking his arms beneath the tap. “What’s most interesting is that whatever it is we’re going to see today, it’s something she _didn’t_ want us to see yesterday.”

“But she wants us to see it now.” John said. “Why?”

“Because, John,” Sherlock grinned, like a child on Christmas morning. “Because we’re getting close.”

They dried their hands on sterile towels, donned gowns and gloves and approached the table.

Melinda Wilson has been cleaned and prepped. She was nude, but covered in a cloth. Her eyes were closed, and had it not been for her waxy pallor (and, well, the giant bullet hole in her forehead), she would have seemed almost serene.

“Lovely to finally meet you,” John breathed, as he looked at Melinda, sadness in his voice.

Sherlock eyed John. “You don’t see a body, do you? You see the person.”

“Med School,” John shrugged. “We were assigned cadavers. Weren’t told their names or anything about them. Mine was a man in his 60s – clearly died of a heart attack. Military tattoo on his right bicep. Scar on his stomach, metal rod in his shin, fingernails yellowed from cigarettes, a remnant of a piercing in his left ear.” John smiled at the thought, his hand to his own ear, lost in the memory. “He’d clearly lived a life. Of course he was a person. And so was she.”

Sherlock nodded, and smiled to himself --  because only John would find the humanity in a stranger’s lifeless, soon to be dissected corpse and celebrate it. Only John…

Molly arranged the body block beneath Melinda’s back, frowning until she was at just the right angle. “Okay, you guys. Dennis will be here in a few minutes. I’m going to start the prep. Feel free to chime in if you see anything, alright? Starting the recording now…”

She lifted a small handheld recorder. “This is Molly Hooper prepping for the the post mortem of Melinda Wilson. In attendance are Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, in for Scotland Yard.” She looked up at the boys, with a wink, and then continued. “Melinda Wilson is a white female, 42 years of age, blonde hair, blue eyes. Identifying features include a small birthmark on her shoulder…” she pulled down the cloth to reveal more of Melinda’s body, “… a caesarian scar…and a tattoo on the inside of her left ankle. Cause of death is presumed to be a gunshot to the head, delivered by person or persons unknown.”

By this time, Sherlock had taken out his collapsible magnifying glass and was examining the deceased. He took her left wrist and turned it, leaning down for a closer look. “Molly, have you seen this?”

She pulled down the overhead magnifier. “Looks like scratches, tiny scratches.”

Sherlock nodded. “No insect bite, no wound, but something was causing her to itch enough for her to damage the skin.”

John stepped in. “Pruritis. Could be caused by anything. Allergies, eczema, new laundry detergent.”

“Noted. Alright.” Molly said. “Turning the body over…just so…. additional identifying marks include a small tattoo below her right shoulder and…huh.” She paused, her eyes focusing on one a spot at her lower back. “Doctor, can I get a consult on this?”

John nodded and joined her at tableside. She continued, speaking to the recorder, but pointing out the area to John with her gloved finger. “At the first lumbar vertebra, approximately 5 to 7 centimeters from the midline, a series of small punctures in the skin are present…

“…needle marks, looks like some are fresher than others.” John said, brow wrinkled, “Injection site is clean and uninfected, which, along with the consistency of the marks suggest the injections were performed by a medical professional or professionals over a series of weeks or months…”

John continued. Sherlock stood at attention, then, impressed by John’s immediate and easy transition into John-the-Doctor from John-the-Blogger (see also: John-the-Flatmate and, lest we forget, John-the-Filthy-Cocksucker). It was inspiring to see him like this, a reminder that the submissive behind closed doors was quite used to being well in command out in the real world.

 _…and you need to stop thinking about John’s capabilities during an post mortem, or people will get the wrong idea,_ Sherlock silently chided himself.

At the table, John was coming to a conclusion. “…considering the location’s proximity to the celiac plexus, I think we’re looking at someone who’s recently received a series of CPBs.”

Behind them, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “CPB?”

 

  

 

 

****

Darcy was late for her shift, which made Louis grumpy, which, in turn, made Fulvia nervous. When she did, finally, arrive, it was in a flurry of apologies and excuses. Her hair was still in curlers, and her costumes had been unceremoniously jammed into her bag.

In short, she was a bloody mess.

“I’m sorry, Louis, I can still make it, I’ve just got to get dressed!” She said, standing at the bar, panic in her voice.

“If you’re so much as a minute late, I’m putting Amber up in your place, don’t think I won’t!

“Okay, but can I borrow Fulvia? She can fix my hair while I get in costume, it’ll be super-quick, please?”

Louis eyed her suspiciously. “Why can’t Jemma help with your hair?”

“Jemma is a goddamned baby, you think she’s ever even seen a fucking curler, Louis?” Darcy said stubbornly. “I need someone old. Fulvia is old, okay? Please.”

Fulvia looked up, opened her mouth to object, but ultimately let the complaint die unspoken…

He looked from one woman to the other, frustrated. “…okay, fine. But hey –“

Darcy stopped, looked wide-eyed. “Yeah?”

He let out a bitter, knowing laugh. “You must think I’m an idiot.”

“I don—what are you?”

“Give me your fucking phone, Darcy. You know the rule.”

Darcy gave a little look of surprise, an embarrassed laugh and reluctantly handed over her phone. “Caught me. Can you let me know if my boyfriend calls, though?”

“Yeah, fat chance.” Louis snarked, and slapped her on her ass. “Get fucking dressed and get up on that stage.” He motioned to Fulvia. “And you? Go with her. Fix that goddamned hair. I’ve got the bar...”

 

 

 

 

****

“CPB, Celiac Plexus Block, it’s a series of injections given for pain.” John explained to Sherlock, as he helped Molly turn Melinda onto her back.

Sherlock reached for his mobile. “Yeah, but pain from what?”

“Causing someone pain again, Holmes?”

Dennis Patterson turned the corner, into the post mortem area. The pathologist had many reasons to dislike Sherlock, from his penchant for swiping spare body parts from the morgue to the particular sort of disruption he caused with the members of his staff – well, specifically with Molly, but Molly was enough, dammit, and Sherlock Holmes was the last man he needed to deal with, after he’d finally recovered from the backup caused by that six-car pileup on the M25.

“I’m not the one with the rib-spreader, Patterson.” Sherlock said, with a nonchalant lift of his shoulder.

“Don’t make me use it on you, Holmes.” He snarled, his eyes taking in John’s presence in the room for the first time. “Oh, and look: now you’ve got a friend. Why not invite all of NSY next time?”

“Dennis?” Molly said, intervening. “This is Dr. John Watson, he works here at Bart’s as well.”

John held out his hand. “Thank you for letting us sit in.”

Begrudgingly, Patterson accepted his hand. “A doctor, huh? Well, Holmes isn’t as dumb as he looks. About time he got some medical help.”

“Oh, can we please get on with this?” Griped Sherlock. “A woman has died, Dennis, show some respect!”

“Are you lecturing me on having respect for the dead? Because there’s been a plague of missing ringfingers in this morgue recently, would you happen to know anything about that?!”

And then it was John’s turn to intervene. “Gentlemen: can we please just get this post mortem started?”

A truce was called, and the party split – Molly and Dennis to the sinks, so he could scrub up and so she could catch him up on the observations they’d made during prep, while Sherlock and John remained at Melinda’s side, so John could listen to Sherlock further complain about Patterson.

“Fucking hate that guy.”

“Well, congratulations, it seems like it’s mutual.” John said tightly. “I’d probably be pissed about the fingers, too, though, Sherlock.”

“I only take them from the patients who aren’t claimed on time.” Sherlock said, with a whine. “Seems like a fair tax for the family.”

“What do you think about Melinda?”

“Nah. Her fingers are too small.”

“No, I wasn’t suggesting you take her fingers, for fuck’s sake, I meant about the CPB.”

“Wait – say that again.”

“What? ‘…about the CPB…’?”

“No, the other part.”

“…about taking her fingers?”

“YES!”

Sherlock, suddenly inspired, moved to the pair at the sink. “Molly, have you fingerprinted Melinda Wilson yet?”

“Yeah, when she first came in.” She said, turning. “Why?”

His expression sunk. “Oh.” He crossed his arms, deflated. “Well, nevermind, I guess.”

Patterson let out an impatient sigh.

“What? That’s the procedure.” Molly said, defensively to Sherlock. “We clean ‘em up, measure them, fingerprint them and once we complete the post mortem, the whole thing gets put together into one file that gets sent to the Yard.”

John took a step forward. “Wait - so you’re saying that the Yard _doesn’t_ have her fingerprints yet?” John asked. “They wouldn’t be in their database?”

“No,” Molly shook her head. “Not unless she’s got a record.”

Sherlock perked. “Molly, quickly – can I see the prints?”

“On my desk, in the pocket folder.” She said, pointing at the file with her chin.

The detective stripped off his gloves, pulled out his phone and turned to John. “Stupid. Why didn’t we think of this before?”

“Don’t look at me – you’re the genius!” John said, moving to join him at Molly’s desk. “You think it’s hers?” He asked, lowering his voice. “You think the fourth set of prints on the gun are hers?”

“Hang on,” Sherlock said, locating the images in the pocket folder and holding it up to the images on his phone.

“You’re killing me, Sherlock. Is it hers?”

He turned the two images, one paper print from Molly’s folder, one picture file from Sherlock’s iPhone, and held them up for John to see, with a smirk.

“The fourth print? Belongs to Melinda Wilson.”

 

 

 

****

In the dressing room, Darcy removed her coat, revealing that she was already dressed, in her costume, ready to go. She began pulling the rollers out of her hair, quickly, and with a practiced flick of the wrist.

Fulvia raised her eyebrow. “So you’re already dressed?”

“Yep.”

“And so, you…don’t…need someone ‘old’, then?”

The dancer laughed. “I had to make Louis believe that we’re not allies, right? Come on, you’re not old. Besides, I think you’ll forgive me.”

“Were you able to get in touch with Jeremy?” Fulvia asked eagerly, voice low.

“I did, I gave him your message.” She flipped her hair and sprayed it, flipping it up, a dark mane. “By the way, you didn’t tell me he was such a gentleman.”

Fulvia relaxed. “Good, okay. Thank you so much, Darcy, I can’t even begin—“

“Wait, don’t thank me yet.” Darcy said with a grin. She layered on a final coat of lipgloss, then reached into her purse. “You smoke Silk Cut, don’t you?”

“Umm, yeah,” Fulvia said, as Darcy threw her an open pack of Silk Cut cigarettes. “I keep bumming yours, thought it was time I paid you back.”

“You didn’t have to—“

“Shut up. Yes I did. Open it.”

The cigarette pack was open, the cellophane wrapping half-removed, but it was the weight that threw her. Fulvia lifted the hinged lid and found a row of cigarettes, behind which was concealed a small, inexpensive mobile phone. Fulvia let out a gasp, and clamped her hand over her own mouth. “You…did this for me? You risked your safety?”

“Darling, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Read that in a book once.” Darcy said, dusting glitter over her shoulders, between her breasts and along her belly. “And you need a friend. Use this phone to warn Lily, and call Jeremy or I if you get in a jam – in the meantime, we’re working on something with one of the beer distributors, hopefully we can bust you out of here.”

Fulvia clutched the pack in her hand. “I don’t know what to say, Darcy.”

From the front-of-house, Darcy’s signature dance music began to play, and Darcy smiled. “Just say it’s time for me to go on.” 

 

 

 

****

“Melinda is the fourth print?” John said, trying to keep his voice low as Sherlock rescrubbed up for the post mortem. “What does that even mean?”

“It means that we’re definitively not looking for someone outside that family circle, “ Sherlock replied. “There’s no devilish hooded stranger lurking in the shadows.”

“So that means the trigger-person was either Lily or Teddy or Victor…”

“…or, conceivably, Melinda herself.” Sherlock said.

John lifted an eyebrow skeptically. “Without powder burns? And at that angle?”

“Utterly ridiculous, yes. I’m just,” he snapped on his second pair of gloves. “I’m just trying to keep an open mind.”

From across the room, Dennis Patterson cleared his throat, loudly, signaling that the post mortem was about to begin. Sherlock and John kept a respectful distance as Dennis and Molly talked to one another in clipped shorthand, the entire conversation recorded in the same manner as the prep had been.

“X-Rays completed?”

“Yes, with dental work scan, upon reception of the deceased.”

“Photographic record?”

“Complete.”

“Excellent. Blood sample, then, please, Moll.”

“Right.” Molly busied herself with the blood collection kit while Dennis began his verbal overview of the body. When she was done, Dennis made his “Y” incision, across the chest and then down to the belly button. Together, Molly and Dennis pulled the skin wide.

Molly gave a small intake of breath.

Dennis leaned forward, still speaking into the recorder. “Body presents with numerous adenocarcinomas, which appear to have metastasized to the liver.”

“Cancer.” John said tightly. “Lung?”

Dennis turned. “Pancreas.”

“She was dying? And then she was shot?” Molly gaped.

“Talk about adding insult to injury.” Murmured Sherlock, and then correcting himself, “Rather, injury to disease.”

“May I?” asked John, and Dennis stepped back, allowing him room at the table. “No signs of surgery, initial tumors must’ve been non-resectable prior to metastasis.”

“Late stage, certainly.” Dennis added. “No treatment, then?”

“Chemo, maybe,” John murmured.

Sherlock approached the table at Melinda’s head and ran a hand through her hair, testing its thickness. “Hair’s short, fine, untreated – grays peeking through. Wouldn’t expect 100% natural color from the woman that Louis Lloyd described. Certainly suggests chemotherapy.”

John looked to Sherlock. This was not what either of them had expected to find. John lifted an eyebrow, and Sherlock nodded a confirmation. “Molly, Dennis, thank you for allowing us to sit in, I think we have what we came here for. Molly, do let me know if you run into anything else unusual. Come along, John.”

“Does this help?” Molly asked. “I mean, does any of this help your investigation?”

“More data is always helpful.” Sherlock said confidently, and exited the morgue.

 

 

 

****

More data _was_ always helpful, Sherlock hadn’t lied, but what more data did, particularly this sort of data, was jumble in with other data and form into a knot that had to be dissected, one strand at a time with great care, before any sense could be made of it.

Out in the hallway, John was excited, explaining all the medical ins and outs of pancreatic cancer, and the words were spilling out of him at a rate that was jamming Sherlock’s signal.

“…the conventional method for CPB involves a percutaneous posterior approach with fluoroscopic guidance,which is safer and more accurate than the blind method, but I’ve never seen—“

“JOHN! “ Sherlock said, loudly, placing his hands on John’s upper arms, turning him to face him. “I need you to stop. I need you to find me a dark room with a door that locks where I can bloody well _think_.”

The doctor stopped immediately, seeing the urgency in Sherlock’s eyes. “Right now?”

He nodded, serious.

“Understood.” John looked up, trying to remember the layout of this wing of the hospital and lit upon the perfect solution. “Got it! Follow me, Sherlock.”

One right turn and two lefts led them to a quiet hallway and a door marked “Sleep Study D”. John’s St. Bart’s pass opened most doors in the hospital, and he crossed his fingers that it would open this one. A soft click of the magnetic entry meant they were in, and John ushered the detective inside.

“They only conduct sleep studies once a month here – I was hoping we’d hit it right.” John said, with a smile. The lights were low here, and the room was well insulated, specifically designed to keep noise out. This room was one of four rooms, each with a single bed in the center, a bedside table, two chairs and zero distractions. This was a room designed for sleeping, for exploring one’s subconscious mind, but today, Sherlock would be using it to tap into his _hyper_ conscious mind, his Mind Palace.

“Well done, John,” said Sherlock, with admiration. He toed off his shoes and hopped into the bed, moving into a sitting position with his legs crossed and his back ramrod straight. He closed his eyes and stretched his neck luxuriously as he settled in. “Run along then. I’ll text when I need you.”

“Alright, then.” John said and backed toward the door. “Anything I can d—“

“No. I’ll text.”

“Okay, then,” said John, and with one last lingering look at Sherlock, he let himself out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him.

He meandered down the quiet hallway, finding a vending area with little charm and even fewer refreshments of interest. He entertained the notion of going back to the morgue, or visiting Mike, even, but he wasn’t sure how long Sherlock would be, and on the off-chance this trip to the Mind Palace was a quick one, he didn’t want to be too far out-of-pocket. He passed three doors -- the other three sleep study doors, “Sleep Study C”, then “B”, then “A” -- before coming to a room marked “Sleep Study Control”. Curious, he gave a quick flick of his pass and John found himself in the small, dark control booth.

He flipped on the light switch and the room came alive, electronics humming to life, canister lights in the ceiling giving off that same warm, meditative glow that had been present in Sherlock’s “Sleep Study” room. On the countertop, two large monitors turned on, flashing a familiar electronics logo, and John felt vaguely concerned about all this gear starting up around him, wondering what else that light switch had set into motion.

He stopped worrying, however, when the monitors switched to display mode.

The monitor on the left was split into four quadrants, each labeled A-D. Each quadrant showed an empty, dark room – each quadrant, that is, but one: the quadrant marked “D” showed Sherlock Holmes sitting cross-legged on the bed, hands moving erratically, lips moving as well.

John grinned, and sank into the control room chair. Well, this could be fun…

If the good doctor felt any remorse about using surveillance on his flatmate while he visited his Mind Palace, it certainly wasn’t showing on his face. A quick review of the labeled controls and he was able to punch Room D’s image up on the full-screen monitor, and access the room’s audio, and soon he could hear Sherlock, for what little good it did – a jumble of half-muttered phrases and noises of frustration, less a running dialogue and more a running complaint, but still, it gave John an interesting insight into how he worked. He reached for a wireless joystick near the keyboard, and after a bit of random button-pushing, he was able to access Room D’s camera, tilting it up to focus on the man sitting, rather than sleeping, in the bed.

 _Beautiful, even on close-circuit_ , thought John, and he watched him work – for this, _this_ was Sherlock’s real work. This was how crimes were solved, how connections were made, how the innocent were redeemed and how criminal careers came to an end. This was the true magic of Sherlock Holmes…

But, to be entirely honest, though, John had always thought the idea of the Mind Palace was, well, maybe a little pretentious? Maybe more than a little? Even watching Sherlock now on the screen, all the gesturing and hand-sweeping, all the muttering and furrowed expressions seemed a little, well, theatrical. But he couldn’t deny the efficacy of Sherlock’s methods. After Sherlock had explained it to him, John had read a few honest-to-god, legitimate articles that raved about the use of Mind Palaces as a highly advanced method of organizing thoughts.

But now, seeing it first-hand on the monitor in front of him, John finally understood it for what it was: it was a dance, a ballet of logic and lightning-quick assessment, of fact-finding and sorting and conclusions drawn without emotional bias. John watched, in amazement, as the man on the screen, his man, if he chose to have him, plucked delicate strands of truth out of thin air.

It was impossible.

It was brilliant.

And then all at once, it was terrifying, because Sherlock’s voice had ramped up, and he was suddenly shouting, on his feet, tearing at his hair, pulling at the bedclothes, throwing the pillow against the wall and positively _roaring_ , arguing, debating, spitting at someone that was not in that room. He was furious and heartbroken and frustrated all at once, hands gesturing angrily, kicking the bed into the wall, leaving a long scratch against the floor. John was on his feet in a heartbeat, running out of the control room and down the hall to Room D, flashing his badge for entry and slamming it behind him, his hands reaching for Sherlock’s arms and being pushed away, the detective still deep in an altered state.

John physically pushed Sherlock back, pushing him onto the bed, and grabbing his face with his hands. “Shhh, it’s okay, it’s me, it’s John—“

Sherlock growled, a sound from his very depths, and grappled against John’s calming hands, slipping out from under the doctor and pinning him to the bed, instead.

“Sherlock, stop!” John said, firmly, military command voice in effect, his hands up, hoping that if he stopped fighting, Sherlock would, too. “It’s John! I’m here!”

And in an instant, Sherlock was back. He huffed out a breath, face damp with exertion and red with emotion, and John had never seen Sherlock so…defeated.

“John?”

“It’s me. It’s okay. Sherlock, it’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t.” Sherlock said, posture crumpling. “I can’t do it.”

John sat up. “Yes, you can, Sherlock.”

“No, I can’t. I-I-I’m too close!”

“To the solution?”

“To Victor!” he shouted, and ran a hand over his face, pushing the sweat out of his eyes. “I can’t…see the answer because Victor is in the way, don’t you bloody get it?”

“Victor’s guilty, then?” John said.

“NO! I mean, I don’t know yet. But the…fear…” Sherlock said, the word tasting sour in his mouth “...that he might be…I didn’t anticipate…this. I just can’t…I can’t…SEE past him. He’s in the way.”

At that, John pulled him in tightly, took the man into his arms and hugged him, whispering reassurances and kindnesses and confidences into his ears before pulling back.

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes, and was struck with a sudden thought. “What if I was Victor?”

“John, now you’re being rubbish.”

“You can imagine a Mind Palace, but can’t imagine a way to evict someone from it? Even if only temporarily?”

Sherlock stared at him, confused. “John, this is something that I do alone. The Mind Palace is here, you can’t get inside my head.”

John licked his bottom lip with a small grin. “You get in my head all the time, why can’t I get in yours?”

“This is different.”

“No, it isn’t.” John replied. “Make me Victor’s proxy in the Mind Palace, and when emotion starts getting in the way, you’re going to give all that emotion to me, got it? Love, lust, fear, sentiment, all mine.”

Sherlock squinted at him doubtfully. “How, precisely am I to do that?”

“Hit me. Kiss me. Cry on me, if it helps.” John explained. “If I’m Victor, then Victor’s out here and not inside, getting in your line of sight.”

“You really think it’ll work?” Sherlock looked incredulous, and sat with his legs dangling off the edge of the bed.

“I have no fucking idea. But it’s better than you trashing the room or tearing at your hair.” John said, pointedly returning the upended lamp to its rightful spot and then edging his way in-between Sherlock’s thighs. “Go through this the way you normally do, walk the halls of your Mind Palace and do your thing. I’ll be right here. And if a troublesome emotion arises, you give it to me, understand? The good and the bad. I want it.” He licked his lips a second time.

“Is this some kink thing, John?” Sherlock asked, suspiciously.

“Jesus, no, this isn’t about kink.” John insisted, exasperated. “I just…want to help.”

Sherlock thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “Too dangerous, John. In this state? You saw what I did to this room. I might hurt you.”

John rolled his eyes. “Please. You think I can’t kick your arse if I have to, you skinny git? Now _that_ I might take undo pleasure in.” John grinned again.

“Oh, I’ll remember that, slut.” Sherlock smiled back, with a wink. John’s blush rose in spite of his efforts not to. Sherlock flexed his fingers nervously.

John sidled closer, and leaned in to Sherlock’s ear, speaking quietly. “Please…let me help you through this? You know I can take it.” He hopped up onto the bed, and sat cross-legged, the way Sherlock had. . “Come on, let’s give it a shot.”

There was silence as Sherlock stared, his jaw working, and then he slowly drew his legs up under himself, mirroring John on the bed, making sure to leave ample space between them for gesturing.

“Okay, John, fine.” Sherlock said, simply. “Let’s…give it a shot.”

 

 

****

Fulvia slipped into the handicapped stall of the Ladies Room at Player’s Club, her hand clutching the pack of cigarettes that Darcy had given her, still stashed in her front pocket. She sat on the seat, and crossed her legs, plucking the mobile from behind the row of cigarettes, and stroking the cool metal buttons. She dialed her step-daughter’s phone number, but hit “end” before the call went through.

Because it wasn’t time for that, not yet…

She paused, and pulled one of the prop cigarettes from out of the box. She lit it, taking in the smoke, and closed her eyes, and in that moment, it felt like she was taking in all of the horror and misery of the last few days, of the last week, the last year, longer, even, sucking it all into her lungs, where, she imagined, her body would scrub all of the pain away, make it all null and void and clean and beautiful and no one would put her life, or the lives of people she cared about, in danger ever again.

Her head ached, but not from lack of drink. This was an ache that came from her soul, and she knew it wouldn’t get better on its own. It would just.get.worse.

She picked up the phone and meditatively dialed a phone number that no one knew she knew. The phone rang, and when it was finally picked up one the other end, Fulvia exhaled a long, cleansing stream of smoke before speaking.

“Yes. I need to speak with David Lambeth.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >>>>>>READ THIS FIRST!!! Before we get to the End Notes, look at [Sketchybadger's](http://sketchybadger.tumblr.com/) drew: [kickass illustration](http://i.imgur.com/jphEud8.jpg) for this fic, depicting Victor TRevor on the couch with some of his favorite toys! (Close-ups [here](http://i.imgur.com/fRibbuR.jpg), and [here](http://i.imgur.com/hDoOHOE.jpg)) and it [kicks ass](http://i.imgur.com/5EJfRLP.jpg)!) I’ve posted this as the intro to Chapter 10, since most of the goodies shown have to do with that Chapter, as well as to the head of the fic as a whole, but I just wanted to show you guys how awesome it was!!! 
> 
>  
> 
> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> Big plot chapter, including some stuff we’ve been building up to for quite some time. Hopefully a few readers will have been surprised by some of what occurred in this chapter! ☺
> 
> \- What the heck is an AFME? [Assistant Forensic Medical Examiner](http://www.researchgate.net/publication/43099349_Training_of_assistant_forensic_medical_examiners_in_London_UK) – honestly not sure if this was the right terminology (AFME versus [AME versus MEA](http://www.wisegeek.com/what-does-a-medical-examiner-assistant-do.htm)) to use for Molly’s job, but decided to go with it! Please do correct me if I’m wrong!**** 
> 
> ***Yay, and happily, someone did! On 5/15/14, I finally went in and revised my mistakes, changing Dennis' job title to "pathologist", Molly's to "lab tech" (even though that's a topic of some debate) and removed all references to "autopsies", replacing that word with the more-commonly-used-in-the-UK "post mortem". Thank you to reader [Betty Swallocks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BettySwallocks/pseuds/BettySwallocks), for her advice on the job titles, and thanks to both Betty and [Sketchybadger](http://sketchybadger.tumblr.com/), Britpicker extraordinaire, for helping me sort out the autopsy/post mortem issue, you guys are golden! :-)
> 
> \- It’s [creepy](http://www.wikihow.com/Perform-an-Autopsy-on-a--Human-Being) how many [“How To: Autopsy”](http://science.howstuffworks.com/autopsy4.htm) resources there are on the net. 
> 
> \- [This Chapter’s Follower Tease](http://www.zigsam.at/l1/B_Cig/SilkCutPurple-20fAG2008.jpg)
> 
> \- Medical Links: [Pruritis](http://www.cancer.gov/cancertopics/pdq/supportivecare/pruritus/Patient/page1/AllPages/Print), [Celic Plexus Block](http://www.medcentral.org/Main/CeliacPlexusBlock.aspx), [Pancreatic](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pancreatic_cancer) [Cancer](http://www.cancer.org/cancer/cancerbasics/signs-and-symptoms-of-cancer)
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking around! Next chapter should post on Sunday, May 11th!
> 
> See you then, lovelies!
> 
> vex.


	27. "Proxy"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crashing the Mind Palace...

 

_It wasn’t gradual, the slip into the Mind Palace…_

_It was close-eyes on the bed at Bart’s and open-eyes on the bed in Victor’s hotel room, the day of the murder. It was that simple, and he was there. He could smell Victor’s cologne, could feel the coarse texture of the bedspread and if he looked out of the corner of his eye, he could just see Melinda’s prone form in the hallway, the blood still wet._

_Victor sat cross-legged across from him, miming John’s posture from back at Bart’s. The hotel room telescoped in size, longer and wider than the actual room, and behind him, at a distance and slightly out of focus were Teddy and Lily._

_“Hello again, Rabbit.” remarked Victor, looking down at his position on the bed. “Well, this is new.”_

_“Do shut up, Victor.” Sherlock held out his hand to Victor, a warning gesture. “You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”_

_“Come on, don’t act like you never trashed a hotel room before.” Victor leaned back against the headboard with a cocky smile. “The Sherlock I knew back in the day would’ve loved it.”_

_“This isn’t a hotel room, and you know it.” Sherlock said tightly. “You asked for me, you hired me to investigate. Let me bloody do my job!”_

_“Fine. Whatever, Bunny.” Victor grumbled. “Is this going to take long?”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It will take exactly as long as it takes, and not a moment less.”_

 

 

****

“…and not a moment less.”

Back at Bart’s, John watched Sherlock snipe at the thin air, eyes closed, face animated, firm, determined. The muttering he’d heard in the control room was far more audible now that he was sitting this close to the detective, and John listened, fascinated, trying to reconstruct the other half of the conversation, the part locked inside Sherlock’s head.

Victor had shown up, right from the start, that much was clear. Sherlock had said his name, his voice flaring with irritation, and John could almost imagine the confrontation in his own head. He watched Sherlock swallow hard, his Adam’s apple moving along the loveliest throat that John Watson had ever kissed…

_Concentrate. Place and time, Watson…_

Right. John tried to stay alert, to keep his mind on the task at hand and not to succumb to the warm mood lighting and the unparalleled sexiness of his lover’s suprasternal notch. As to what his task was, exactly, well, he was playing it completely by ear. For now, his job as proxy was to wait  -- and that’s all it would be, John figured, unless Mind Palace Victor stepped out of line.

 

 

****

_“Means, Motive, Opportunity.”_

_Sherlock Homes stood before Lily, Teddy and Victor in his Mind Palace, in the room that looked like Victor’s hotel room._

_“The hallmarks of modern police procedure, and yet where do they get us with you three? Nowhere. All three of you left fingerprints on the murder weapon and all three of you were at the hotel the night Melinda Wilson was killed, so you all had the opportunity to commit the crime. You all share many of the same potential motives for killing Melinda Wilson – some selfish, at least one selfless.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes softened in that moment, but the softness vanished with a clearing of his throat._

_“So, what to do?”_

_“You’ve already heard my deductions.” Lily shrugged. “It’s either Chad or Victor.”_

_“Jesus, Lil!” Teddy groaned._

_“It’s true, isn’t it, though?” Lily smirked. “The brainiac here either has to ignore those pesky dust and rocks that exonerate Chad or he has to say goodbye to his pervert friend.”_

_Sherlock turned. “It could have been you or Teddy just as easily, Lily.”_

_Lily protested. “Teddy was locked in the bathroom, the police had to take the door off his hinges!”_

_“And I can assure you that Lily was not in the hallway when her mother died.” Victor intervened._

_“Oh, so much love in the air, look at this.” Sherlock crooned. “She protects him, you protect her. Quite a little triangle.”_

_The virtual punch that Victor delivered to Sherlock’s jaw just then didn’t hurt in the same way as an actual punch would have, but it diverted Sherlock’s attention away from the case at hand and immediately refocused his brain on the singular and seething desire to **punch back** …_

 

 

****

At Bart’s, Sherlock **lunged,** tackling John and pinning him handily to the bed.

“Don’t blame me for your mistakes, Victor!” Sherlock growled, and panted, out of breath, as if he’d been struggling.

John took the tackle, unsure of what to do next, but kept both eyes focused on Sherlock’s fists. He remembered the impact they’d had on Victor’s nose, and he wasn’t keen on experiencing it first-hand.

Sherlock loomed over him, his knees on John’s upper arms, impatiently listening to a conversation in his head.

“Vic—“ he broke in, and then paused, breaking in a second time, “Victor, I—“, and then paused again, eventually breaking in a third time. “Not another word, Victor, not until I call on you. You’ve already said enough today.”

More listening. More jaw clenching. His fists, however, relaxed.

Sherlock’s expression flared again in anger. “Shut up, Victor,” he said, and backed up and off John, freeing the doctor’s arms. Sherlock knelt at John’s side, then, and sneered. “You’re a distraction.”

The aggression seemingly over, John tentatively reached out for Sherlock, running his fingers over his arms in a soothing gesture, quietly exhaling a reassuring “Sssshhhh….” as he did, causing goosebumps to form along his pale arms. John’s intention was not to pull Sherlock out of his altered state, but rather influence an overall sense of calm into his world from the outside, in the same way you instinctively soothe someone having a nightmare, allowing the tactile and auditory comfort of reality to creep in.

“Yes, but that’s appropriate, isn’t it? Our sex lives are cruel by definition.”Sherlock remarked, and John froze. Sherlock had just called Victor a distraction, and suddenly the conversation had turned to sex. John felt an unreasonable surge of jealousy, unreasonable because it was towards an imaginary person – and yet, perhaps not-so-unreasonable. It was, after all, Sherlock’s custom-crafted mental incarnation of a real person, a real person the detective had a long-standing relationship (of sorts) with. John had almost expected as much, if he was being honest with himself…

_(“Hit me. **Kiss me**. Cry on me, if it helps.”)_

…but the reality of the moment was that John was jealous. And that feeling wasn’t helped by the sudden appearance of a rise in Sherlock’s trousers…

 

 

****

“ _Don’t blame me for your mistakes, Victor!” In the Mind Palace, Sherlock growled, and panted, struggling against Victor, his wiry frame quicker than Victor’s and he pinned him to the floor, his knees resting heavily on Victor’s upper arms._

_Victor flexed his arms fruitlessly, Sherlock’s weight and position keeping him locked in place. He fired back. “Oh yeah? Well don’t blame us for—“_

_“Vic—“_

_“No, Sherlock, you need to hear me out on this. Don’t blame us for whatever investigative anomalies you may have turned up. Did you ever think that—“_

_“Victor, I—“_

_“No, did you ever think that maybe Chad went to Merseyside the day **before** Melinda’s death, did you? Or are you so fucking fixated on being clever that you—“_

_Sherlock turned a high-intensity glare on his old friend. “Not another word, Victor, not until I call on you. You’ve already said enough today.”_

_“Oh, so bossy,” Victor said, defiantly, playfully. “Use that tone on John Watson and he’ll fall into a thousand pieces.”_

_“Shut up, Victor.” Sherlock sneered._

_“Oh, did I hit a nerve?” Victor taunted._

_Sherlock grunted in response, backed up and off Victor, freeing the chemist’s arms. “You’re a distraction,” he said._

_“Glad I can still have that affect…” Victor crooned. “It is perhaps the cruelest joke the universe ever played, making you and I both Dominant.”_

_It was then that Sherlock felt a shiver, a pleasant sensation, and felt his arms break out in goosebumps. Odd, he thought, but Victor had, after all, been adjacent to Sherlock’s sexual responses for most of his adult life, so perhaps not so odd._

_Sherlock shivered once more, feeling a stirring below. He responded with the vaguest of flirtations. “Yes, but that’s appropriate, isn’t it? Our sex lives are cruel by definition.”_

_Victor’s lips curved, taunting. “What sex life?” Victor stepped forward, invading Sherlock’s space. “By your own account, you haven’t had much of one since I left...”_

_Sherlock’s voice vibrated.  “Watch that...”_

_“Make me.” Victor pressed forward._

_Sherlock remained undaunted, sarcastic. **“** Tempting.”_

_Victor shook his head, scolding him. “You got a problem with anything that’s happening right now, just remember that you put me here, installed me in your fucking Mind Palace, genius, filed under…”_

_“Fuck…” Sherlock said, gritting the word out, bleeding patience and becoming sidetracked by his own increasingly tight trousers._

_“Precisely. That’s why you’re hard right now and I haven’t even touched you.” The American smirked._

_“Victor, I’m warning you. Behave.”_

_Sherlock looked away and then stepped away, trying to sort out the source of this inconvenient arousal. Where the hell was this coming from? More importantly, was it real? It felt real, far more real than Victor’s punch, and if it was real, then Christ, what on earth must John be thinking right now?_

****

John’s imagination was working overtime in the Sleep Study Room, knitting Sherlock’s actual words with his best guess as to what Victor’s were – but between thewords Sherlock said and the growing erection in his pants, it was obvious what was happening:

 

 _“_ Watch that...”                                                                                                                

 **“** Tempting.”                                                                                                                       

“Fuck…”                                                                                                                          

“Victor, I’m warning you. Behave.”

 

John could see it in his mind’s eye, Victor taking liberties, Sherlock shutting him down, Victor offering, Sherlock accepting, but taking control. And that last bit is what made John’s brain stutter long enough to leave his jealousy behind -- because John had witnessed Victor topping Sherlock, had subbed for the both Doms, both together and apart, but what John had not yet experienced was seeing Sherlock top Victor, and that…that made John reel with want. The thought of the older, stronger Victor on his knees before Sherlock was arousing enough, but then his mind leapt to the image of he and Victor perhaps serving Sherlock together, and well…the wheels just came off.

Because, the reality of the situation (and yes, it helped john to focus on the **reality** of this situation) was that he and Sherlock were both aroused, locked away alone in this dark room, with no foreseeable interruptions in the near future.

Sherlock mumbled then, from faraway, something about presuming “…to know what I want”, and at that moment, John’s reckless streak resurfaced, knowing what it wanted as well.

Because after all, what was the worst that could happen? Even if he were to knock Sherlock out of his Mind Palace, it didn’t look like the detective was getting much productive thinking accomplished, anyway, bantering with Victor. And besides, what was John doing there, anyway, if not to disrupt that banter?

And so, with conviction, John reached for Sherlock’s waistband…

****

 

_Back in the Mind Palace, no sooner had Sherlock told Victor to behave, than Victor rebelled and began trashing the place, kicking over the bedside tables, yanking the TV cord out of its socket, hoisting the console to his shoulder and opening the hotel window._

_“Remember the night after the Supersuckers show at the Marquee?” Victor grinned, holding out the television to Sherlock. “Go ahead, man, I know you want to.”_

_Sherlock shook his head, disappointedly. “Don’t presume to know what I want, Victor,” he snapped._

_And then, all at once, everything…changed._

_The hotel melted around him, immediately replaced by the sitting room at 221B, and Sherlock was suddenly sitting in his chair. The sun was setting outside and Victor was on his knees before him, wearing John’s clothes -- cable-knit jumper, practical shoes, even the scent of Earl Grey Tea surrounded him– and he was pulling impatiently at the button of Sherlock’s trousers. The Yank didn’t seem to register that anything around them had changed, and seamlessly carried on their conversation from before the switchover to Baker Street._

_“Presume to know what you want? Oh, I know **exactly** what you want, Sherlock,” Victor said, licking his lips in a very familiar way.  “And most of the time, I know before you do.” _

_“You do, do you?” Sherlock said, skeptically, brow arched._

_“Come on now, Bunny,” Victor smirked, skillfully removing Sherlock’s trousers. “I practically gift-wrapped John Watson for you.”_

_“Don’t be…oh, Victor, christ…” Sherlock closed his eyes and let out an uncontrollable groan as Victor took him into his mouth. His concerns about how this might be translating into the real world were still there, but felt very far away as his mind focused instead on the irresistible sensations below. He felt compelled, the lips on his cock insistent and perfect and he thrust into them, slowly at first, still managing to put forth a protest to Victor’s words. “D-don’t be an arse. I liked John Watson long before you showed up.”_

_Victor stopped sucking then, and sat back on his heels. “Bullshit, Rabbit! You were dismissive of him, that first day I came back. Implied he was as sexually relevant to you as Mrs. Hudson, for fuck’s sake.”_

_Sherlock frowned and slid farther into his chair, legs opening wider, ignoring him. “Come on, don’t…stop.”_

_“No, um, Rabbit. I need to know.” Victor looked up at him, pointedly curious. “ If you liked John, why didn’t you ever say anything?”_

 

 

*****

“D-don’t be an arse. I liked John Watson long before you showed up.”

Inside Bart’s, at the sound of his name, John froze and stopped what he was doing, like a child caught playing with matches. His mind stammered, hiccupped, wondering if he’d misunderstood what Sherlock had said. Why would Sherlock and Victor be talking about him during sex?

While John sat in stunned silence, drop-jawed on his knees, aware of the sound of his own breathing, Sherlock was apparently listening to Victor, somewhat angrily, it appeared. He made a face and opened his legs wide, making a slightly petulant gesture towards his cock. “Come on, don’t…stop.”

John could, certainly, have given in to Sherlock’s request, could have returned to sucking him off with all the skill he could muster and allowed Sherlock and Victor’s conversation to continue on its own.  But John saw an opportunity here, an opportunity to experiment, and to perhaps turn the conversation in a more productive direction, and he took it.  

He cleared his throat, and tentatively opened his mouth.

“No, um, Rabbit. I need to know.” John said, speaking at normal volume, “If you liked John, why didn’t you say something?”

“What, to you?” Sherlock let out a bitter little laugh. “We weren’t talking then, remember? Even if we had been, I wouldn’t have said anything about him to you, Victor. You do have a penchant for taking my leftovers.”

 _Good god, he’s actually hearing my words_ , John thought. What’s more, it was clear that in the Mind Palace, John still appeared to Sherlock as Victor, casting the doctor in the role of some strange, otherwordly puppeteer. But it was working, John realised, with fascination. He’d somehow broken through into Sherlock’s Mind Palace and was directing the conversation, apparently without Sherlock realising anything was amiss!

John steered the discussion back to the point at hand.  “Yeah, but you never made a move. You lived with…him… for months and months and never even gave him the slightest hint!”

Irritated, Sherlock ran fidgety fingertips over his thighs. “You know why, Victor. I’m not fit for the long-term.”

“How do you know?”

“I tried it once, didn’t I? With Alex. We see how good that turned out, no thanks to you.” Sherlock lifted his hand, gestured firmly towards his cock. “Now, can we please go back to –“

“No.” John’s voice became firm and commanding. “What’s the real reason?”

“That is the real reason.”

“Liar.” John challenged, frustrated, letting his anger seep through.

“Jesus, Victor, I…”

“Tell me!” John demanded.

“Fine!” Sherlock erupted, loudly. “I was afraid, okay? Is that what you want to hear?” He stood up, then, and turned away. “I didn’t want John to go away. I need him and everyone goes away when I…” he broke off. “Everyone leaves. Even you.”

 _He needs me,_ thought John, but locked down his glee for the moment. After all, to be needed is one thing, but to be loved is another.  John peered up into Sherlock’s face. “Do you love me, Sherlock?”

“Yes.” Sherlock shrugged. “But I’m not in love with you, Victor. Christ, I thought we exhausted this topic back in 1995…”

 _Shit. I’m not me, I’m Victor_ , John chided himself and tried again.

“No, I meant,” John licked his lips again, and rephrased his question. “Heart of hearts, and speaking in all seriousness: Are you, Sherlock Holmes, in love with John Watson?”

“Don’t be daft, Victor,” Sherlock said. “Of course I am.”

 

****

_“Don’t be daft, Victor,” Sherlock said. “Of course I am.”_

_And all at once, in the Mind Palace, Victor took Sherlock’s face in his hands, pulled his mouth to his own, and delivered a kiss that was unlike any kiss Sherlock had ever experienced. There was passion and skill behind it, certainly, but also a tenderness, and an inherent sweetness that was so foreign to Sherlock, it threatened to shut him down for a moment. This kiss was nothing less than one heart speaking to another, than one mouth unlocking the other, and their bodies slipped together, each fitting perfectly against the other, filling in the empty spaces, and making each man whole and complete._

_The kiss ended, and Sherlock opened his eyes, expecting to see Victor Trevor standing in front of him, but much to his surprise, he found none other than John Watson standing there, breathless._

_“It’s…you.” Sherlock blinked, confused, his lids fluttering. “I thought…how did you, how are you…how are you doing this?”_

_“Doing what?”_

_“John, how are you here?”_

_John paused. “Wait: I’m there? **John** is there?”_

_Sherlock nodded. “Victor was here, and then…he became...you. How are you in my Mind Palace?”_

_“Snuck in through a side door, I guess.” John beamed, and sat down in his sitting room chair. “I’m really there?”_

_“Yeah, you’re in your chair. We’re at Baker Street.”_

_“But I’m not - I’m sitting down on the bed in the sleep study room at Bart’s. This whole experience is…”_

_“…strange, I know.” Sherlock mused, and ran through the events of the last few minutes, a sudden recognition. “That was you, wasn’t it? The blowjob. That wasn’t Victor.”_

_John blushed. “You and Victor had done nothing but argue since you went in. I had to do something.”_

_“And your go-to disruption was oral sex?”_

_“Hold on: are you actually complaining about a blowjob?”_

_“Hardly. I just should’ve known, is all. Victor was never as gifted in that area.” Sherlock considered the conversations he’d had in the Mind Palace, to this point. “So you heard…everything?”_

_“I heard a fair amount.” John nodded, looking up from his chair. “Took a good guess at the rest. I think I got the general gist.”_

_Sherlock sat down on the floor beside John’s chair, resignedly, and leaned his head on John’s knee, with a sigh. “So, in the end, I guess I **was** the first to say it, after all.”_

_“First to say what?” John said, teasingly, twisting a piece of Sherlock’s hair around his finger._

_“Are you going to make me say it again?”_

_“Yes.” John smiled. “Over and over. Besides, you haven’t technically said it to me yet. You said it to Victor.”_

_“Fine,” Sherlock turned to face John, looking up at him from below. “I am…in love…with you, John.”_

_John’s face bloomed. “I…love you, too, Sherlock,” he said, and Sherlock raised up, pressing John into the chair in a most pleasant way, kissing into the corners of his mouth. John’s hands peeled off Sherlock’s suit jacket, made his shirt dissolve beneath his fingertips, and then flattened his tongue against Sherlock’s nipples, first the left and then the right, circling until Sherlock pushed him away with a moan and divested him of his jumper and shirt. The doctor unfastened his jeans and Sherlock lifted his knees, removing his trousers and his pants and before stepping back, the beauty of John Watson laid out in the chair before him, smiling and eager and flush, so lovely._

_“Look at you…” Sherlock mused. “God bless.” The golden glow of a sunset burned outside Sherlock’s window, and John’s skin echoed the color scheme. His eyes were sleepy in the darkness, a look of contentment on his face that Sherlock had never seen._

_Sherlock breathed slowly. “How can you possibly need any more proof than this?”_

_John’s eyes opened a little wider. “Proof of what, Sherlock?”_

_“Proof that we should be together.” Sherlock smiled. “You found your way into my Mind Palace. We love each other. And I don’t know about you, but I’m...happy. That’s enough, isn’t it?”_

_John put his hand on Sherlock’s. “Very nearly. But I meant what I said yesterday. I still need an answer to my question. And not until after the case.”_

_“Then I guess we’d better solve this case.” Sherlock sighed, and licked at the light down hair around John’s navel. “But not before I taste every inch of you.”_

_“Is that a promise?” John asked._

****

“That’s a promise,” he answered, in the Sleep Study Room at Bart’s and proceeded to run his tongue down into the slight crease below John’s belly. John leaned back, closing his eyes, listening to Sherlock’s mouth work against him, the soft sweet sibilance of saliva against skin and the persistent electronic hum of…

No, couldn’t possibly…

“Sherlock?” John sat up, eyes swiveling to each of the three cameras in the room, each featuring a single, persistent, glowing red light.

“Sherlock!” He tapped him on the shoulder, rousing him from his Mind Palace with a sharp shake. “Put on your clothes, we have to stop!” John pushed away and began scrambling into his jeans.

Sherlock blinked, eyes adjusting to the reality of the room around him, confused. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, no – just fuck, I’m an idiot!” John said, throwing the detective his shirt. Ninety seconds later, he dragged a half-dressed, still half-aroused Sherlock out of the room and down the hall into Sleep Study Control.

Sherlock looked around the room. “Is this…?” he peered into the monitor. “That’s the room we were just in, isn’t it? You left your shoes.”

“Yeah, and I’m a jackass, Sherlock. I came in here before things went nuts with Victor, found it by accident. I flipped that switch and the whole room came on.”

Sherlock stood straighter, feeling more grounded in reality. “So? This seems like a very useful sort of room for sleep study analysis.”

John shook his head and repeated himself emphatically, “I flipped that switch,” he said, pointing to the switch on the wall near the door, “And the whole room came on, including those machines.” he said, pointing dramatically to a bank of twelve VCRs in the corner, all of which were humming loudly, noisily, tape clicking inside.

Sherlock turned slowly, with a gleam in his eye. “Video? Naughty boy…”

“No, it wasn’t my intention. I swear.” John said, “I didn’t realize that it had been recording until I saw the red lights!”

Sherlock calmly buttoned his shirt. “Don’t get hysterical, John. We hadn’t even gotten to the sex.”

“I’m not upset about the sex, Sherlock.” John explained, manually stopping and ejecting tapes from the three machines that fed into Sleep Room D. “You said some really incriminating things about Lily, Teddy and Victor, mostly Victor on these tapes. We have to destroy them, okay? Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“In case he’s innocent.” John said, exasperated. “He’s your friend, why aren’t you more concerned?” John lifted the hinge of on one of the cassettes and broke the tape, snapping it with the tip of a ballpoint pen that he’d found on the counter. “That’s good for now, but someone could still salvage the footage if they really wanted to. Let’s take them home and pull out the all the videotape. We can burn it all in the fireplace.”

Sherlock nodded, and held out his hand. “Let me help.” John gave him one of the two tapes that were still unbroken and Sherlock pretended to snap it, pocketing it before John could see.

It wasn’t that the detective was unsympathetic to Victor’s plight – he was, after all, his friend – but Sherlock found himself feeling surprisingly sentimental on that morning. After all, along with a lot of ranting and raging against a Victor who was not there, those tapes had also accidentally recorded the very first time Sherlock and John said they loved one another, and he wanted at least one of those tapes to survive. It was a recording of a moment that they could never get back, a critical, wonderful turning point, and he’d be damned if it burned in a fire.

_“…burning the tapes in the barbecue grill …”_

“Sonofabitch…”

“What did you just call me?”

“I didn’t call you anything,…” Sherlock crowed, and squeezed the doctor tightly around his waist. “John, you’re brilliant! Go get your shoes, we have to move quickly.”

“What on earth are you talking about, Sherlock?”

Sherlock flashed a wide smile. “With a little luck, John, between your practicality and my burgeoning sentimentality, we very well might have solved this case!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
>  
> 
> A two-man show in the Sleep Study Room! 
> 
> Hopefully this wasn’t too confusing a read, but I expect you read it the same way I did, with a fair amount of flipping back and forth between the scenes, to see who was saying what to whom!
> 
> This one was a bit of a challenge, to keep the plot moving and still allow for some OTP goodness! 
> 
> Notes are thin for this chapter, since a great deal of it took place in Sherlock’s Mind Palace, but here goes: 
> 
>  
> 
> -[This Chapter’s Follower Tease](http://perverselyvex.tumblr.com/post/85408988516/follower-tease-for-chapter-27-of-the-rabbit%20) was a headscratcher for everyone before they read the chapter, and for some, it still is. I just adore this band, and apparently, so does Victor...
> 
> \- What is [The Marquee](http://www.themarqueeclub.co.uk/#)? Sadly, it is no more…
> 
> \- Need to [Destroy a VHS tape](http://www.ehow.com/how_5782105_destroy-vhs-tapes.html%20)? (But don't burn anything romantic or Sherlock will get all sentimental...)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks again for all the love and comments and stuff!  
> You guys are the bestest! <3
> 
> vex.


	28. "6:42"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thick, plotty goodness. What happened in the hotel, and beyond…

 

John had spent four months fantasizing about Sherlock Holmes, imagining an endless variety of sexual scenarios, of flirtatious conversations, of filthy, leering double entendres and creative couplings, but never once had he fantasized about Sherlock Holmes…in love. Had John considered it, he would likely have imagined Sherlock-in-love to be an only slightly warmer version of Sherlock-not-in-love: same guy, but with the addition of, at best, a few conspiratorial smiles and perfunctory kisses behind closed doors.

Had John considered it, he never could have imagined the reality of Sherlock-in-love.

Because the truth was, ever since the Sleep Study Room, Sherlock had become markedly expressive, less cautious, more relaxed. Most notably, the detective had begun maintaining overt, continuous physical contact with John – his hand on the small of John’s back, on his shoulder, at his hips, pulling him in tight, delivering small kisses in the back of the cab until John laughed, shooting a nervous smile to the cabbie. To be fair, though, it was hard to tell how much of his obvious elation had to do with John and how much had to do with finally getting a line on the case – a line he still hadn’t shared with the doctor.

Sherlock’s hand stroked John’s knee absently as he instructed the driver. “Left here.”

John looked out the window, suddenly recognizing the neighborhood. “Teddy James’?”

“Yep.” Sherlock nodded, his fingers still busy. “I’ve been thick, John, all this week. Distracted. Not _entirely_ your fault, of course.”

John rolled his eyes, but let the comment pass. “So, what’ve you been thick about?”

“The proof. I’ve entertained lots of theories, drawn a number of conclusions, but located very little proof.”

“And you think the proof you need is here?” John asked, squinting up at Teddy’s flat.

“If I’m right – and you know I am – it will be.” Sherlock said, with a smile and a wink that made John weak. He paid the cabbie and followed his mad detective into the building and up the lift.

In the hall outside Teddy’s door, Sherlock dialed a number on his phone, nodding happily when it clicked to voicemail. “Bit of luck. He’s not home.”

“Or just not answering his phone,” John added. “People do that, you know?”

Sherlock ignored him, eyeing the lock on the door. He reached into his breast pocket for his lock pick kit, and with deft fingers, sorted through the tools, selecting a Bogota rake and a torque wrench. Twenty seconds later, the tumbler clicked and the door unlocked. John couldn’t help but feel a familiar rush of amazement. _Fucking Sherlock Holmes…_

Once inside, and without a word, John conducted a walk-through to make sure they were alone, using skills honed in Afghanistan, securing the location: quiet, quick, and thorough, a studied drill that left Sherlock feeling his own brand of familiar amazement. _Bloody Captain Watson…_

On confirmation from John that they were, in fact, alone, Sherlock took his hand and led him to Teddy’s office, the edit room, the room with the stacks of videotapes.

“You gonna tell me what we’re doing here?” John asked, brows lifted. “Or is this a guessing game?”

“VHS, John.”  Sherlock smiled.

“VHS tapes?”

He nodded. “Like the ones in Sleep Study control. VHS tapes in machines set on automatic record.” Sherlock challenged. “ _Find the footage, find the killer._ Remember?”

John nodded, remembering the conversation outside NSY, days ago. “The hotel security system.”

“That missing tape is here, John, I can feel it.” Sherlock said, gesturing broadly – well, as broadly as one could do in this cluttered, confined space.

“Surely they would’ve burned it?” Asked John. “Surely the killer would’ve destroyed it just like they destroyed Lily’s drug tapes?”

“I think…not.” Sherlock said, definitively.

John exhaled loudly, looking around the room, totally bewildered. “Sherlock, there might be thousands of tapes stacked in here. Not to mention the tapes buried behind the stacks, in those bookshelves.” 

Sherlock smiled, and pecked him on the cheek. “Then we’d better get to work, now hadn’t we?”

 

 

 

****

First, there was the separating of VHS from Beta SP, from Mini-DV, from ¾” and 1”, which narrowed the field, but not enough to make it any less of a Herculean task.

“If they’re in a box or a sleeve, stack them here,” Sherlock explained. “I doubt the thief would’ve gone to the trouble to grab the sleeve.” But even with the boxed or sleeved tapes taken out of the running, thousands of tapes remained.

John sighed. “So, how do we do this? Are we watching all of these?

Sherlock shook his head. “Waste of energy. Eventually, yes, but we need to narrow them down further.” He pulled out his phone and punched a few buttons, hitting send. John watched him, with interest.

Sherlock slouched, leaned back and put his free hand casually in his pocket, waiting for the call to connect. John lifted an eyebrow at the man’s sudden, curiously casual bearing.

The phone picked up on the other end, and Sherlock affected an annoyed grimace, scrubbing his face with his hand. “Yeah, can I speak with the manager, please?”

John’s confusion about Sherlock’s weary expression and his change in posture gave way to a complete understanding the moment Sherlock opened his mouth. John’s face broke into a broad grin.

On the other end of the phone, the manager picked up, and Sherlock moved forward. “Yes, Hello, Mr. Richards, this is D.I. Lestrade from Scotland Yard. Would you have a few moments to assist in the investigation of the shooting at your hotel last Friday?”

Sherlock-as-Lestrade listened. “No, no I don’t want to disrupt your business again by visiting in person – sirens, flashing lights, not good for the bottom line, no. That’s why I was wondering if you could help us by sending a digital photo of your security camera tapes, numbered 1, 2 & 4….”

He nodded, “Great… yeah, thanks, mate.” John couldn’t help but giggle, and Sherlock shushed him with a crinkle of his nose. “Just text me at this number, yeah? Ta, thanks.”

He hung up the phone and John busted out laughing. “How long have you been able to do that?”

Sherlock smirked. “Since I realized how much fun it is to be Lestrade, on occasion. Also handy in cancelling drug busts…”

Ten minutes later, Sherlock’s phone chimed a text message. “Oh, good shot, Mr. Richards…” crooned Sherlock, looking at the image and enlarging it on his screen to show John. “Okay, here’s what we’re looking for: black VHS tape, no adhesive labels. It’ll be marked in white grease pencil on the face with the number ‘3’, just like these. Number symbol, then ‘3’, and no marking on the spine. Got it?”

John nodded. “Got it. We should be able to narrow this stack down quickly now.”

John was right. Less than 90 minutes later, they’d gone through all the stacks and had begun sifting through the tapes in the bookshelf. An hour after that, and they’d sorted through every loose tape in the room, but had sadly found no Tape #3. Their backs ached and they kept looking at the clock, knowing that every second that passed would bring them closer to Teddy’s inevitable return home.

“It’s not here, Sherlock.” John sighed, collapsing into Teddy’s editing chair. “It was a good idea, though, but if they had it – and that’s still an if, Sherlock – if they had it, they probably burned it with the other tapes, in the grill.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, that’s why it has to be here, John. She would never…” He paused and paced the room, temper on edge. “It HAS to be here. Think…THINK…where haven’t we looked?”

John sighed. Sherlock opened the now-accessible closet, only to find it stacked full with old computers and video gear, and he slammed it back, just to spite it.

John leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes drift and glaze, to look beyond the tapes to take in the room by itself. Row of bookshelves. Small table with teapot and cups. Framed autograph of Guy Ritchie on the wall. Long-abandoned cat toy under the desk – and John grimaced, hoping the cat, whoever it was, had not died among the stacks, only for them to discover, horrifically, later in their search.

He leaned down to pick up the toy, a blue goldfish with a bell on the end, dusty and still smelling vaguely of catnip, the sheen of its sequin scales illuminated by the LED lights from the various tape decks that were installed in racks below the desktop. John threw the goldfish on the desk and leaned back again.

_…various tape decks…_

John sat up, slid the chair back., bent to look below the counter. “Sherlock!”

Hearing the urgency in his voice, Sherlock forgot his temper and turned. “Did you find it?”

“Maybe,” John said, pointing to one of the machines below. “This is a VHS deck, yeah? I mean, a professional deck, but still VHS, right?”

Sherlock crossed the room in two strides.  “For fuck’s sake, hit the bloody eject button, John!”

John did, and a tape slowly ejected.

A tape devoid of paper labels.

A tape labeled instead with the hasty scribbling of a white grease pencil.

A tape labeled “#3”.

  

 

 

****

“For fuck’s sake, John, push it back in!”

“You just told me to eject it!”

“And now I’m telling you to push it back into the deck, John, and press the bloody play button!”

They both reached for the tape at once and eased it back into the machine.

Sherlock looked to John, excited. “This is it, isn’t it?”

“I hope so.” John said. “Let’s just be careful not to hit record, yeah?”

And then Sherlock hit PLAY.

 

 

 

*****

_Shot of a hallway, recorded from a high perspective, camera mounted to the wall. VHS tape bars flip noisily until the control track settles. Even after it settles, the tape is so old, it’s riddled with hits and practically colorless. The effect is sobering, horror-movie disturbing, and leaves everything a uniform, cold gray._

_On screen is Melinda Wilson, alive, and talking to someone just out of camera range. Her words are lost to you, the camera recording only her visual presence. The door behind her, the door leading into her hotel room, is closed, and she leans against the doorjamb, almost casual, arms crossed._

_She is smiling._

_She is radiant, even in the dull gray hiss of the VHS._

_She is Lily’s mother, Chad’s “looker” and Victor’s Mel, the girl who deemed him heartless, and you realize it is possible to know someone, in some real and tangible way, even after their death._

_She stands then, straightens, and moves out of camera range, moving in the direction of the person she’s been speaking with._

_And the hallway is suddenly empty._

_It stays empty for six minutes and forty-two seconds, minutes and seconds you dare not fast forward through because it’s not like you don’t know the end of this story. You know how Melinda Wilson ends, if not who it is that ends it for her. Fast forwarding through these last precious minutes, even off-screen, would be a callous, disrespectful act, and so you wait, patiently, for the end of her story. You wait out this time with reverence, because these lost minutes are her last minutes alive._

_When she reenters the frame, her countenance has changed. She smoothes her dress, and lifts her chin and Victor appears, his posture stiff, his left hand flexing at his side._

_They stare at each other, and then she nods, the slightest of gestures._

_She nods, just once._

_Just once, and Victor pulls the trigger..._

 

****

Sherlock and John stared wordlessly at the monitor, letting the tape run after the shot was silently fired, after Melinda crumpled to the ground, after Victor ran out of the shot into the ice machine alcove and back out into the hall.

“You knew it would come to this, Rabbit.”

They turned, the familiar voice behind them, in the doorway. Victor.

“You knew before you even accepted the job. Both of you did.” Victor said. “Was hoping you’d be good boys, and just…follow the trail to Chad.”

Sherlock stands, and John takes his cue, pressing stop on the tape machine and ejecting the cassette before joining the detective at his side.

Sherlock nodded. “I warned you what would happen, Victor—“

“Oh, I know. Expect no mercy.” Victor interrupted. “Turned over to the Met so fast my head will spin.”

“Why would you do this?” John spat. “You monster.”

“Hardly an axe-murderer, Johnny. You saw the video. This was consensual.”

“That’s not what I meant,” John said, charging forward. “Why would you do this to Sherlock? He’s your friend!”

“Look at that, Rabbit, will you?” Victor pointed at John, and closed the distance between himself and Sherlock. “More worried about you than the dead woman. More worried about you than himself!” Victor smiled. “In fact, don’t forget, in all of this. Don’t forget you owe me for John Watson.”

John shoved him, then, pushing him away from Sherlock and knocking him hard into a large stack of 1” tapes. His wrist cracked against the Ikea shelving and Victor winced, inspecting it after, testing its movement. “Playing rough, John. And me, without a safeword.”

“Enough, Victor.” Sherlock said, calmly. “No more gloating. And you?” He nodded to John. “No more fighting. And as for the two of you,” he said, lifting his head in the direction of the doorway, “No more hiding.”

At that, both Lily and Teddy emerged hesitantly into the doorway, the wedding photographer eyeing the state of his office with visible dismay.

“Alright, then.” Sherlock said, throat clearing. “Mr. James, put on some tea and make some space at your kitchen table. It’s time for me to tell you all a story.”

 

 

 

 

****

 

“I met Victor in the middle of a crime scene, in the middle of him committing the crime.” Sherlock said, after everyone had settled at the table. All eyes were on Sherlock, who stood by the sink, idly rubbing his thumb across a ding in the countertop. “So, perhaps it’s only fitting that we end things the same way. Admittedly, this time, the crime is on a much more tragic scale.

“But this isn’t a story about Victor, well, not until the end, anyway. It’s Melinda’s story. And over the last week or so, you’ve all been forthcoming, in many ways, so eager to assist the investigation, even going so far as to shove a business card in John’s hand, a very big breadcrumb that you hoped would lead us to your prime suspect, Louis Lloyd, aka Chad Wilson.”

Sherlock turned to Victor. “I still hate that you did that, by the way. As if we wouldn’t have found him on our own…”

“Your mind was elsewhere,” Victor replied. “You just needed a push.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “Can we possibly get through this without sex talk?”

“Too true. Moving on.” Sherlock paced the kitchen, stopping to move boxes out of the way to make a path around the table, and began a rapid-fire delivery of the basic events: “So, let’s start at the beginning. 1992, Chad and Melinda get married. They gets jobs, a house, give birth to a child, Lily in 1993. Chad gets in bad with the Lambeth gang, drags his lovely daughter into the mix at a tender age, fuckhead that he is, and Melinda, in her wisdom, ejects him from the house. Everybody with me so far?”

The table nods, in unison.

“Good. So, Chad becomes Mel’s ex, and Fulvia’s current, and on Fulvia’s very bad advice, god bless her, he gets in even deeper with the baddies. The choice is die or hide, and Chad, fuckhead that he is, chooses to hide. He disappears, but not for long.

Six months later, he surfaces, needing cash and getting it from Melinda because, fuckhead that he is, he has videotapes that incriminate little Lily and Melinda herself in the nasty business of Southeast Asian drug running. Over the next seven years, he blackmails her out of her trust fund, out of her insurance money, out of every last penny.”

“Yeah. We all know this story, Sherlock…” Lily said.

“Yes, and those were all the parts of the story that you were relatively eager to share,” Sherlock smiled. “But, you see, now we come to the parts you hid, and those are the really interesting bits, don’t you think?”

Sherlock turned sharply. “For example, Teddy. Why don’t you tell us about Melinda’s diagnosis?”

Teddy looked up, startled to be called out. He paused before answering, and then, let it out, all at once. “You were at the post mortem this morning, I’m guessing? You know, then, but I’ll say it:  Stage IV pancreatic cancer, inoperable. Terminal. Tragic.”

Sherlock’s voice went gentle. “But Mel wasn’t the only terminal cancer patient you knew, was she?”

Teddy’s froze, and slowly shook his head “no”. “My father,” he said, quietly.

Lily turned her head in surprise. “What? You never said,” and placed a hand on his arm.

Sherlock nodded in confirmation. “Calendar on the fridge, eighteen months old, hasn’t been replaced or removed. Bag of plastic prescription bottles under the sink, labels painstakingly torn away. And then there’s the state of your home…hasn’t always been like this, has it? The structure of this flat is sound, underneath what, if I had to guess, would be 18 months of depressive neglect, isn’t that right, Teddy?”

Teddy focused on a faraway spot on the wall. “He died a little over a year and a half ago. He struggled. It was horrible. A horrible way to die. And it fucked me up, I’m not going to lie. That’s…that’s when the drinking started. But I did get help, went into therapy, you know, for people with terminal illnesses and their families.” He put his hand delicately on top of Lily’s. “And…that’s where I met your Mum, actually.”

Lily laughed, “No, silly, remember? I introduced you to her at the house, way before she had canc—“ Her face fell, then, realisation falling all at once. “Oh, god…she lied…”

“She didn’t lie.” Teddy said, rushing to explain. “She put on a brave face. Wanted to spare you for as long as she could.”

“But, she was already sick…and you…?”

“She didn’t want you to be alone, like I was. She wanted someone to be there for you when her time came.”

“So, that’s why you’re here now? Some kind of sick set-up from my mother?“ Lily spun, panicked.

Teddy grabbed her hand tightly. “No, no, she wanted to be there for you as a friend. You and I, what happened with us, what we feel, that was all us, just us, you have to believe me.”

Lily pulled back, doubt in her expression, but she did not pull her hand away.

Victor chose this moment to step away from the table for a smoke, propping open the back door and leaning against the doorframe. John stood up as well, to get more milk from the fridge, and passed by Sherlock on his way. “How long did you know about this and why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, under his breath.

Sherlock reached for his wrist, thumb and forefinger pulling him closer. “I can’t tell you all my secrets, John. You might stop thinking that I’m amazing.”

“You little shit,” John muttered, and kissed him lightly on the ear, a kiss that went unnoticed by most of the rest of the room. “So,” John said, returning to the table, face a little flushed from the kiss. “Melinda was diagnosed earlier than some thought. What does that mean for the case?”

Sherlock lifted his chin. “Well, a diagnosis like this effects people in different ways. Some people fall to pieces, and others…”

“…others get motivated.” Lily said, putting the pieces together in her mind. “In Mum’s case, she got motivated to sort out Chad, because it was around that time that she called Victor.”

Victor shifted against his spot on the wall, the cherry of his cigarette flaring. “Don’t even think about it, Rabbit, I’ve already told you everything I’m going to tell you about robbing the pub.”

Sherlock crossed the room, took the cigarette from Victor’s mouth and kept it. “Oh yeah? How many times have you returned to the UK since you left with Alex?”

Victor shrugged. “I was gone for two years, I don’t know.”

“No, tell me,” Sherlock persisted. “In those two years, how many times did you return? Twice? Four times? Maybe just at the holidays?”

“Fuck off, I don’t know, you nosy shit.” Victor pushed his shoulder lightly. “Back off.”

“You didn’t. Return, that is. At least, not according to Visas and Immigration.” He turned, explaining to John. “Last minute text to Beatrix this morning. That girl is a gem.”

Sherlock turned his attention back to Victor. “You leave, you don’t come back, not even for holidays, until an old friend calls and suddenly, you come running, isn’t that true?”

“Mel’s an old friend. Was.” Victor explained. “She needed me, I was going to be there for her.”

“For her. Of course.” Sherlock said with a smile, cryptically. “So. Mel’s got this burst of motivation from the diagnosis and she’s driven to sort the situation with Chad before she dies. She calls Victor and brings his safecracking skills across an ocean, and damn if he doesn’t succeed. Good on you, Vic.”

“Drop it, Rabbit.”

Sherlock smirks and continues. “The evidence is burned in the grill and Lily is safe, so Mel calls Chad, triumphant, and says, what? She’s not going to pay anymore, now that the tapes have been destroyed? Sound strategy, would’ve worked, too, if Chad, fuckhead that he is, weren’t a completely raving lunatic, isn’t that right, Lil?”

Lily crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re less attractive when you’re smug, you know that? Yes. He told her that she could fuck the evidence for all he cared, and that if she didn’t pay him, he was going to kill her.”

John leaned forward. “He actually threatened to kill her?”

“Oh, it gets better,” Lily said, defiantly. “He threatened to kill her, right in front of me, by the way – fuckhead that he is, to use your words – and my fucking badass of a mother looks him straight in the eyes and laughs.”

Sherlock smiles, captivated. “She…laughs? Really?”

“But that’s not all.” Lily said, with a smirk of her own. “Then she says ‘Take your best shot, arsehole, I’m dying anyway’.”

From the doorway, Victor grinned to himself. “That’s my girl.”

“So, what did he say? I mean, what could he say to that?” Asked John, fully invested in the story.

Sherlock frowned. “My money’s on something even worse. Is that right, Lily?”

She looked down, staring into her tea. “Yes.”

“If I’m right, he did the worst thing a father could ever do, John,” Sherlock said, his words clipped. “If I’m right he just threatened to kill Lily instead.”

Lily swallowed hard, and took a sip of tea.

At that, Victor turned his back to the room, and walked outside into the courtyard.

Teddy looked up. “Mel fell apart after that. Got sicker. Was in a lot of pain. Victor stayed to help. Said he’d been cleaning up her vomit since the 80’s, so what was a little more?” Teddy smiled a little, at the memory. “It was hard. Almost as bad as Dad. The CPB would bring her back to us for a little while, but when it would wear off, she was right back in hell.”

“Was she in her right mind, when she came up with the plan?” Sherlock asked.

“She knew what she wanted, Sherlock, that’s all I can say.”

John’s mouth tightened. “You’re saying…”

Teddy nodded in the affirmative. “She wanted to die. Saw an opportunity to stop Chad for once and for all. Protect Lily, and at the same time, make sure her daughter would get to keep the insurance money after her death. She saw it as a win-win.”

“It was a stupid plan,” said Victor, reentering the room and rifling though Teddy’s fridge. “Fucking tea, goddamn Brits. Tell me you have some fucking beer in here, Ted!”

“Bottom shelf.” Teddy said, and Victor grunted in return, grabbing the bottle he wanted and popping the cap with his bare fingers.

“It was a stupid plan,” he said again. “But what am I going to say? No? She’s dying. Lily’s in trouble. Bottom of the ninth, all bases loaded, you do what you gotta do.”

Sherlock sat down in Victor’s chair. “Assisted suicide framing a blackmailer, reasonable in theory, but not in the way you guys did it.”

Lily became indignant. “Hey, Mum’s plan was pretty solid!”

“Your mother’s plan might have been, but your execution was sloppy and heavy-handed and doomed to fail.” Sherlock said, not pulling any punches. “And that’s why I’m here, aren’t I? To clean up your collective mess.”

“Hey, watch it, now,” Teddy said, bowing up a little.

“No, you watch it,” said Sherlock, smelling blood in the water. “Let’s look at the scorecard, shall we? You claim there was a break-in at Lily’s, but you lot never even call the police. Lily claims to have had a phone call with Chad, but you offer no proof of the call.”

“Sherlock,” warned John.

Sherlock continued, undeterred. “Each of you touches the murder weapon and but nobody wipes off the prints – and no, don’t blame Victor, that was everyone’s fault.”

“Sherlock, back off.” Victor bowed up, ready to move.

“No, Victor. They have to be made to understand.” Sherlock explained, and turned his attention to Teddy. “You hire bumbling accomplices who fail to retrieve the murder weapon, you appoint the wrong gunman at the scene of the crime and, to top it off, you fail to destroy the one undeniable shred of evidence that will, undoubtedly, convict the person who did pull the trigger. Now tell me, Lily dear, what part of any of that is ‘solid’?”

“You fucking asshole!” shouted Teddy.

Sherlock snarled in response. “What? You’re going to man-up now? Pity you hadn’t been able to pull it together at the crime scene or my friend wouldn’t be in the position he’s in now!”

Lily’s chin began to tremble. “Teddy tried, okay? He wanted to. He asked Mum if he could be the one. I know why now. He needed to do it, because he didn’t do it for his Dad.”

“But he didn’t do it for Mel, either, did he?” Sherlock mocked. “He couldn’t pull the trigger and so he locked himself in the bloody bathroom!”

“Okay, Sherlock,” John said, his voice on edge. “You’re angry, I get that. But Victor chose to pull that trigger, and Victor chose to involve you in this…farce. You are angry with Victor. Leave them alone.”

“Fine.” Sherlock snapped, and sat in the chair beside Victor. “You needed me, to get you out of this, right? So help me get you out of this. Tell me about the day at the hotel.”

Victor kicked back in his chair, arms crossed. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck me?” Sherlock laughed. “Fantastic, Victor.” He stood, walked away, hands steepled in thought. “Six minutes and forty two seconds.”

Victor looked up, with a squint. “Come again?”

“In the video. There’s Mel and then there’s…someone off camera, presumably you, and they’re talking. And then Melinda walks out of the camera frame and stays out for six minutes and forty-two seconds.”

Lily lifted a brow. “What?”

“You didn’t know?” Sherlock asked.

“Lily was gone by then. She was gone before Teddy lost his nerve, even.” Victor said, quietly.

“Well, there’s a blessing. She didn’t have to witness that, at least.” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. “So, let’s run through the events of that afternoon. You check in to the two different rooms, It was originally supposed to be Victor and Mel one room, presumably to set up the theory that Chad walked in on the two of you together. Teddy in the other room as the gunman, Victor was supposed to be the witness and Lily only supposed to be there long enough to say goodbye to her mother and leave before the fireworks began. Am I on the right track?”

“Yeah,” said Victor. “Bullseye.”

“But it all went downhill when Teddy couldn’t do it. Suddenly, he’s locked up in Mel’s room, not the room he was supposedly staying in, by the way, and you now have no gunman. Teddy texts his apology to Lily, who actually comes back to try and console Ted, and at that point, everyone just wants to call it off…”

“Not everyone.” Victor drawled, quietly.

“Everyone except Mel.” Sherlock said. “And she knew you could make this happen, in spite of everything.”

He nodded. “She called Lil into the room and explained she still wanted it to happen, and Lily fought. Broke my heart. Went hysterical, said it was a sign that we weren’t supposed to do this, and she fought against me, tooth and nail.”

“Literally nail,” said Sherlock. “The scratches on your throat, not delivered in passion…”

“Don’t be disgusting,” sniffed Lily. “I just…didn’t want her to go. I was selfish.”

“You weren’t selfish.” Victor said. “You just loved her. And eventually you understood.”

“I did.” Lily’s eyes misted. “I just miss her so much.”

“I know.” Victor said, and pulled her head in close, kissing her on the head. “Me too.”

Sherlock eyed them then, and slid his eyes to Teddy, before picking up the thread of the story again.

“So, Lily says goodbye, again, and leaves. Teddy’s in the bathroom and you and Mel are in the hallway. It was you that she was talking to, wasn’t it, in the video?”

Victor nodded. “Yeah.”

“What were you talking about?” asked John. “In the tape, she looks…lovely. Happy.”

“She was talking about Lily.” Victor said. “And her future. Finishing college, getting married, having kids, having a life without Chad and blackmail and fear and pain. You should have heard her. She was so…full of bliss, and she knew that it started with this moment.”

“So what happened?” Sherlock asked.

“What do you mean, what happened?”

“Six minutes and forty-two seconds, Victor.” Sherlock reminded him. “She was full of bliss, but you didn’t shoot her until six minutes and forty-two seconds later. What happened?”

Victor drained the bottle of beer, and pushed back from the table. “Fuck this shit, Sherlock.” he sighed, pressing his palms into his eyes. “Fine. You want to know, I’ll tell you. You’ll dig this, Teddy, especially. Okay, so, when push came to shove, when I’m…fingering this fucking gun in the hallway and she’s looking so full of bliss, I…”

“What, Victor?”

“I…couldn’t do it.” Victor said, and swallowed hard. “I choked. I couldn’t kill her.”

“But you did,” said John. “We saw the tape.”

Victor worked his jaw, guilty. “Yeah. Eventually, I did.”

Sherlock stuttered, not used to seeing Victor so…frayed, and his eyes flashed to John, who understood.

John gave a coughed and stammered a response, carrying on for Sherlock. “So, so…you and Mel went into your hotel room, and what did she say? To convince you?”

Victor shrugged. “The same things she had said, but more emphatically, more honestly than she’s said in front of Lil. She talked about the pain, the indignity of dying, and how killing her would maybe be the one thing that would redeem me.”

“Redeem you?” John asked, confused. “Redeem you for what? For being, what? Heartless, or whatever?”

“No, John.” Sherlock intoned, understanding now. “For being a terrible father.”

And all at once, the room unclenched. Lily and Teddy and Victor began to breath, and John stared, open-mouthed, at everyone around the table. “Y-you mean…?” John asked, letting the question hang, and turned his eyes to Victor.

The American exhaled and nodded, his expression sheepish. “Yeah. I’m Lily’s father.”

“But you said you and Mel were never like that!” said John. “You said that you were pals.”

Victor mused. “Pals can make babies, too, John, under the right conditions.”

Sherlock stared at Lily, looking for her father and finding it in the curve of her smile and the color of her hair.  “Always said you were tricky.”

“Yeah, well, that’s where the similarities stop.” Lily teased. “I didn’t know until after Chad disappeared. Mum told me that she and the pervert, here, had an affair early on in the marriage and that they had made…me. Passed me off as Chad’s at the time, but when everything went south with Chad, she wanted me to know that he wasn’t my real father, even though my real father was far from perfect.”

Victor explained. “She was married, I wasn’t ready to be anyone’s father, and Chad hadn’t revealed his true colors. So, I let another man raise my child. If I’d had any idea what was happening…”

“What? You would’ve shown up here with your junkie pervert pal and raised me, like a sitcom kid?” Lily snorted. “No, really, you’re fine. I like you, Victor, but only at arms length.”

“For now.” Victor smiled. “We’ll see.”

And Sherlock smiled along with him. Six minutes and forty-two seconds had, apparently, been the time it had taken for Victor Trevor to grow up, in that hotel room with Melinda Wilson, and accept that sometimes, grownups had to do difficult things, terrible things, to make a better life for their children. Sometimes, they even had to say goodbye to the people they love in order for them to find peace.

“She told me it was my turn to be Lily’s parent, and gave me the mood ring, to remind me that I couldn’t be heartless anymore.” Victor remembered, and gave a low laugh. “But it was stuck, you know, on her finger. I mean, it had been there for years.”

“But you, always prepared, you had those packets in your pocket,” John said, making a deduction of his own.

Victor grinned. “Hey, lube has many uses, John. Got the ring off her finger, didn’t it?” He looked to Sherlock. “And you thought I’d been up to something naughty in that hotel! Little did you know I’d just become a responsible adult!”

“Yeah, right,” Sherlock snorted.

“Except,” said Lily, “He’s not going to be a very responsible adult in prison.”

Victor’s mouth went tight. “She’s right. We fucked up, in so many ways, in all the ways you said earlier. What can I say, we’re not fucking criminals. What the fuck do we know about framing someone?”

Sherlock nodded. “And that’s why you came to me.”

“This isn’t about me, Sherlock, you know that now.” Victor said, urgently. “This is about her and making Mel’s death mean something. If I go to prison, or if I’m forced out of the country, Chad will fucking kill Lily. You know this.”

Sherlock placed his fingers carefully on the table top. “What do you want me to do, Victor. You shot her. You left evidence.”

“Evidence that the police haven’t seen yet.” Lily said, emphatically.

John shook his head. “Chad will never admit his did this. He has alibis, plural – fake ones and one real one, no less. He’s not going to give any of you the satisfaction of being convicted for this crime.”

“But if you suppress the evidence you found – the tape, the gun, the dust on Chad’s boots – it’s our word against his and Victor will at least have a fighting chance,” Teddy explained.

Victor slid his hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck, and brought him in close, forehead to forehead. “Understand that I would never ask you to do this for me.” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I love you, Rabbit. Please, just…I’m a fighter. Give me a chance to fight. Just a chance. For Mel and Lily.”

Victor released him then, and both men sat back, solemn. Sherlock looked to John, and opened his mouth to say something, but whatever he was going to say was forgotten with the sound of a text chiming on both his and John’s phones.

Sherlock reached for his phone, but John beat him to it. The doctor read the message and made a choked noise in his throat, closing his eyes and shaking his head, impossible. He held the phone up for Sherlock to read:

**Chad Wilson/Louis Lloyd found dead in Peckham. Please come to scene. Address to follow. GL**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> FINALLY! The real story behind the murder, and damn, that feels good to let all that plot out!
> 
>  
> 
> \- Want to [learn how to pick a lock](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4GQbCjo0Zdg)? Apparently you can learn, [rather easily, online](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9PBZWSA0xbs):
> 
> \- Does anyone know what a grease pencil is called in the UK? Apparently [no one](http://separatedbyacommonlanguage.blogspot.com/2009/02/china-markerchinagraph.html)! ;-P
> 
>  
> 
> So, the big mystery is out, now we just have to see how everything shakes out, and what will happen next – so stay tuned for the remaining chapters! 
> 
> Thanks, again, everyone for your comments and kudos and I suck for not responding, but I was jammed up with this chapter and stuff at work – but please know that I do this shit for the love (well, and for the porn, who am I kidding?). 
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3  
> vex.


	29. "Bad Rubbish"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to Chad, what happens after Chad…
> 
> ***Trigger Warning: Some blood and gore in this one. But the victim really deserved it, didn't he?***

 

Chad Wilson’s body was found in an alley, in a large wheelie bin three blocks from Player’s Club East.

He’d been beaten before death, that much was clear. There was blood and bruising around his face and neck, and bootprint-shaped marks had been left along his torso. Both of his hands had been removed – hastily, it appeared – raggedly severed at the wrists.

His tongue was missing as well.

“Gang mutilations,” said Lestrade wryly, finishing off a cup of coffee from the shop across the street. “Well, legend has it. Never seen it in real life.” He lifted his eyebrow and squinted at Sherlock. “You?”

Sherlock shook his head, silently and approached the body, opening his magnifier, getting a closer look at Louis Lloyd’s severed flesh.

John stayed back with Lestrade, waiting for Sherlock to do his initial examination before stepping forward to offer his medical assessment. “Legend?”

Lestrade pulled out a cigarette and nodded. “If you see something you weren’t supposed to, they cut out your eyes, if you blab secrets, they cut you a bigger mouth –“

“Chelsea Smile,” interrupted John.

“Yeah, see, you’ve heard ‘em.” Lestrade said, and then motioned to the body. “If we read the mutilations here, Mr. Wilson stole something, a rather big something, that’s the hands.”

John squinted against Lestrade’s smoke. “And the tongue?”

Lestrade gritted his teeth. “Means he lied.”

John shifted on his feet. “And how do we know it’s a gang?”

“They left their calling card.” Greg said, matter-of-factly. He led John to the tray of bagged evidence waiting in the forensic van and plucked one, holding it up for John to see: a plastic evidence bag containing a single playing card, the Ace of Spades. “Well, not a calling card, an actual card. Moderately-sized group of thugs, been around for awhile, the Lambeth gang. Mostly deal in drugs, some neighborhood intimidation, bunch of robberies, the occasional hit. Always leave one of these at the scene of the crime.”

John nodded, slowly. He’d seen the “ **A** **♤** ” graffiti occasionally, but had never known what it meant. “Wilson was, uh, associated with Lambeth, then?” John asked, knowing for a fact that he was, but playing dumb. With things so up in the air about Victor, he decided to keep their entire investigation close to the vest, and Wilson’s visit to 221B was something he’d rather not share with Lestrade until he and Sherlock figured out what they were going to do about Victor.

“Yeah. Long time ago, it sounds like.” Lestrade replied. “But who knows what Louis Lloyd was up to all these years.”

“How’d you find the body?” John asked.

“Anonymous caller. Met responded to the call.” Greg said.

Sherlock approached them, snapping the glass shut and placing it back into his pocket. “Lambeth gang, certainly. Ace of Spades?”

Greg held up the evidence bag.

Sherlock hummed, pleased with his own deductive ability. “Excellent. John, would you like a look?”

John and Sherlock spent the next ten minutes huddled over the body, the detective pointing out his findings, and the doctor adding in his observations. John completed his examination and concluded that the amputations occurred prior to death, and were accomplished using a serrated blade of at least five inches in length. Time of death, he estimated, was recent, as little as two hours ago, and came as a result of blood loss.

“So he bled to death in this bin?” Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer. “Well. Good end to bad rubbish.”

“Tell me this was a coincidence, Sherlock.” John demanded, tightly. “Tell me this really was a gang killing.”

“Certainly brutal enough for a gang killing,” Sherlock said. “Too brutal for anyone we know, John, if that’s what you’re asking. Besides, time of death excludes anyone from our most recent tea party. If your time of death is correct, we were all at Teddy’s flat when this…happened.”

“So you believe it was a gang? And this…damage is some sort of…code?” John asked.

“What the legend stuff?” Sherlock shrugged. “Let’s put it this way: whether it was real before this murder or not, it ‘s real now.”

And he was right. Chad had stolen a great deal of drugs from the Lambeth gang, and he had lied about it. The specific abuses exacted upon his body certainly echoed those offenses.

The coroner arrived not too much later, and removed Chad Wilson from the scene. Sherlock, John and Lestrade stood and watched the corpse be driven away, each in an unsettled mood.

Lestrade was the first to break the silence. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Thoroughly disagreeable character. Not saying he deserved dismemberment…”

“In the end, we all get the death we deserve.” Sherlock said sharply, and raised his hand for a cab.

 

 

 

 

****

The debate began after they returned home to 221B, after John had a shower to clear his head, after Sherlock called Victor to confirm Chad’s death. The need to talk, to hash things out was an unspoken given, the spectre of Melinda Wilson patiently waiting, smoothing her dress…

John made tea. Of course he made tea.

Sherlock poured a shot of scotch and then another one for John, and then put away the bottle on the shelf. Tonight they both needed to be clear-headed.

They sat down in their sitting room chairs, a formal beginning to the proceedings.

“The solution is…perhaps obvious.” Sherlock started, picking his way through the sentence with uncharacteristic timidity.

“Send Victor to prison?” John said, not without sadness.

“That’s the other obvious solution.” Sherlock acquiesced, settling back into his chair. “It wasn’t murder, John, it was assisted suicide.”

“We have a tape of him killing her!”

“We have a tape of her telling him to kill her!”

“Not in so many words.”

“Not in so many words, no,” agreed Sherlock. And they both fell silent. “Okay, let’s walk through this, consider the options, can we agree on that?”

John nodded.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Alright. Option A, take all the evidence to Lestrade – the gun, the tape, the dust on Chad’s boots and let the courts decide.”

“Victor will be convicted.” John said.

“Probably.”

“He has a chance.” John said, with conviction. “Lily and Teddy will testify...”

“…in their own trials.” Sherlock said, finishing his sentence. “They’ll be considered accomplices to murder.”

“That was the risk they took.” John said, meditatively stirring his tea. “ Option B is what? Binning the evidence and letting the investigation carry on in its absence?”

Sherlock’s turn to nod. “Odds are, the Yard would let the blame fall to Chad, now that he’s no longer here to object. Without our evidence – without the gun, the prints, the tape and the information about the coal dust on Wilson’s boots – there’s nothing to implicate Lily, Teddy or Victor…”

“…or exonerate Chad.” John added.

“The problem with Option B is twofold,” Sherlock said, fingers templed. “There’s the problem of ethics, allowing a dead man to take the fall for a crime he did not commit.

“Since when are you concerned about ethics?” John asked. “You break the law practically everyday?”

“The law is not the same as ethics, John.” Sherlock snapped. “But the counterargument here is that we know, for a fact, that Chad did kill that day, he just didn’t kill Melinda. Can the transitive property be applied to justice? Are crimes equivalent? The man who was murdered at Merseyside, was his death somehow less deserving of justice than Melinda’s?”

John faltered. “Of course not.”

“But if we suppress the evidence of Chad’s involvement in the Merseyside killing, regardless of whether we convict Chad for Melinda’s crime, the Merseyside crime will go unsolved.” Sherlock’s voice rose, and his eyes blinked, the way they do when he’s stuck in an infinite loop.

John shifted gears slightly, in the hopes of jarring his detective free from the loop. “Okay, so, ethics. You said there were two problems with Option B. What’s the other one?”

“You know very well what the other one is, John, you’ve been spouting it since we began this investigation.”

John sighed. “A friend wouldn’t ask you to do this. He’s manipulating you. If you save him now…”

“He’s a different man now, John, couldn’t you see that?” Sherlock stood, and paced. “He has a family, now. A responsibility. His life has changed. There’s a chance for Victor to find some permanence now, if we let him go. To cut him off from that, and force Lily and Teddy to pay the price as well seems…cruel. Chad was a horrible human being. And while Victor can be a terrible man, he’s a genuinely good human being. But,” Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. “there’s also the fact that he chose to commit this crime, he was willing to…use me to get his way, and that…just….”

“…breaks your heart.” John murmured softly, understanding his pain. “I know.  And you’re not alone. For all I know, the whole reason he slept with me was to manipulate me as well.”

“Bullshit.”

“Bullshit?”

“Think, John.” He knelt down in front of John. “Victor is to me, in many ways, as Melinda was to Lily. A parent. My parent, the only one who really understood me, in the long run.”

“So, what?”

“So, I’m Lily, you’re Teddy, you figure it the fuck out.”

“I don’t…follow.”

Sherlock counted out the points on his fingers. “Victor slept with you so I would notice you. He did it because he wanted you to be here to take care of me, to be with me, if I somehow failed to save him from prison.”

“That’s ridiculous,” John said, knowing at least the first part of what Sherlock had said was true, Victor had freely admitted it: _bibbidi bobbidi boo, motherfucker!_ “But he didn’t even know about Melinda’s arrangement with Teddy back then, did he?”

“Lily didn’t know, that’s all we know for sure.” Sherlock said.

“Fuck.” John’s fingers played with the worn fabric of the armrests. “Fine, so we’ve both been manipulated by Victor.”

“And is it so bad, John?” Sherlock asked, leaning close to him. “Is the fact that he did his best to bring us together such a crime?”

“No, but manipulating you and I with the intention of having us save him from prison is.” John said solidly.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Sherlock snapped, and impatiently pushed an errant lock of hair out of his eyes. “Little shit is killing me, but he doesn’t deserve to hang—”

“He won’t hang—“

“We can’t count on that!” Sherlock said, plaintively. “ And even if he doesn’t, he loses whatever chance he has to make good on his promise to Melinda.”

John licked his lips. “Fine, okay. Can you live with it?”

“Letting the evidence go? Other than the ethics…”

“…and the damage it will do to your friendship, Sherlock.” John said, evenly. “If you do this for Victor, your friendship will change, you know this.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Sherlock, you know it will.” John ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “He’s crossed so many boundaries with you, but he never interfered with the work. He knew the work matters to you more than everything else. But from the first moment of this case, he barged in like a bull, with the full intention of putting you in a precarious position with regards to the work.”

Sherlock’s breathing had become ragged. “He…didn’t know where else to go.”

“He said he knew from the beginning that we’d figure it out. He didn’t imagine for one second that we _wouldn’t_ be sitting here, you and I, having this discussion.” John said. “Granted, no one could’ve anticipated the convenient passing of Chad Wilson.”

Sherlock stood up and turned his back, facing the window, looking out at the street below. “There is no right choice. Suppressing the evidence saves my friend, but the friendship dies if I suppress it. He is forcing me into a choice I shouldn’t have to make. Compromise my belief in the work or sacrifice him because he made this choice.

John stood and walked to him, watching his love with so much pain in his heart. “Sherlock...”

Sherlock’s face was stricken. “No, you were right. He crossed a line. He shouldn’t have asked me. But I shouldn’t have accepted the case in the first place. I should have listened to you and turned him down from the very start. But I didn’t, and now…I have to make this impossible choice. I don’t want to have to make it, John. And the worst part? No matter what choice I make, I know that in some way, I’ll disappoint you -- no, I know it will result in that, John, trust me, it will.” Sherlock’s eyes found John’s in the relative darkness of the room. “There is no right choice.”

John leaned in to Sherlock, then, soothing him, pulling him close. “It’s late. And you don’t have to choose anything tonight. Let’s get some sleep.”

 

 

 

 

****

But John, it turned out, couldn’t sleep.

He lay in Sherlock’s bed, listening to the rhythm of the detective’s breathing, counting the cracks in the bedroom ceiling and when he ran out of cracks to count, he stood and walked down the hall, resigned to consciousness.

He did some washing up, straightened the sitting room, hung up their coats and put both their phones on charge. He booted up his laptop, thinking about his blog, but felt no desire whatsoever to write about this or any other case at the moment. He responded to a few comments, read some e-mail and confirmed that however this case resolved itself, they’d still have some work waiting for them in the coming days. There was a case of an unusual lodger, a case involving the strange behavior of a uni professor and even a case involving vampires, for fuck’s sake. They’d be busy, alright, but whether Sherlock would be up to the work was anyone’s guess.

Sherlock…John drew in a deep breath. He couldn’t deny that Sherlock was backed into a corner, and he couldn’t say that if he were in Sherlock’s place, that he’d know what to do. Sherlock and Victor’s friendship, their decades of history, and the layers of their unique relationship ran deep, John understood that. Fear of that relationship had been the key motivating factor in getting John to agree to taking the case with Sherlock in the first place… fucking _cockblock_. His own motive for taking the case was just as ethically dubious as Victor’s was for offering it, if he were being honest. He’d taken the case, after all, with the _specific intention_ of landing Victor in jail, and it looked like it would come to fruition, too, if Sherlock didn’t give in to Victor’s strained request.

But if Sherlock did choose to willfully suppress evidence for Victor, it would change everything for Sherlock, John knew it. If Sherlock allowed Victor to manipulate him, it would be a turning point for their friendship, for Sherlock and detective work, and yes, for John and Sherlock as well. But this was Sherlock’s case, Sherlock’s friend, and ultimately, Sherlock’s decision to make. Even before their discussion that night, John had known he’d give in to whatever Sherlock decided.

But now John wasn’t so sure that it was fair to lay the weight of that decision on Sherlock alone.  There was a part of him that wished he could spare Sherlock the pain of making that choice all on his own, but how could he?

From the front door, John heard Sherlock’s phone chime a text, and his eyes flickered down to the clock on his laptop screen. 4:08am, and while it was probably nothing more than an ill-timed wrong number, John felt a tiny flare of jealousy, remembering his own late-night text to Bridge the previous week. God, could it have been just last week? It felt like a lifetime ago…

The phone chimed again, the reminder alert of an unread message. John stared at the phone from across the room, and the rationalizations began to flow. What if it was an emergency? What if something had happened to Mycroft? What if Lestr—oh, well no. If it was from Lestrade, both of their phones would’ve chimed, nevermind. But what if it had something to do with the case?

He resolutely moved his laptop to the side table, stood up and crossed to the front door, eyeing Sherlock’s brand-new iPhone with distrust. _No harm in just looking at the screen,_ he thought. _Just in case it was an emergency. And how could it not be an emergency, it’s four in the bloody morning!_

As he leaned in, his eyes widened, and before he knew it, he was reaching for his coat.

 

 

****

“You’re back.”

“Safe and sound. Wasn’t expecting to see you come through that door.”

“You were expecting someone in a bigger coat, perhaps?”

“…someone several inches taller.”

“Ouch…” John said. “Play nice, Fulvia. Height doesn’t make the detective.”

He slid into a barstool, in the empty pub. It had been hours since closing time, and Fulvia was having a cigarette and a few fingers of gin before retiring to bed.

“Where is he, anyway?” she asked.

“Busy. Sleeping. Does it matter?” John shrugged. “Whatever you want to tell him, you can tell me. We’re a team, after all.”

“You answered his phone in the middle of the night. I’d say you were a team, for sure, love.” She sat up from her slouch. “Drink?”

He shook his head. “Where did you go? Jeremy, was that the kid’s name?”

“Jeremy, yes.”

“He said you were missing.”

“I was…on vacation.” Fulvia smiled. “Had to get away for a few days. You understand. The pressures of running a small business. Sometimes you have to get away.”

“He was worried.”

“He’s a good boy.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray at her elbow. “I heard about Chad.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” John said, echoing Sherlock’ words from earlier in the day.

“You can say that again.” Fulvia laughed, a little harder than was appropriate. John frowned. Her tone shifted abruptly. “Is…Lily taking it alright?” 

 “I expect so.”

“So she’s okay?”

“Yes. Sherlock and I spent some time with her and Teddy this afternoon.”

Fulvia visibly relaxed. “Thank god she’s safe.”

The curious comment prompted John to narrow his eyes and shift the topic. “Where were you today, Fulvia?”

“Returned back from my trip this morning. Came home, immediately went in for a spa day, just to even out the edges.” She fanned freshly manicured fingers in front of him. “The names they give nail polish colors these days. This one’s called ‘Bloody Return’, can you imagine? It’s on my toes too. Plus, I got a relaxing massage, was there all afternoon, people waiting on me literally hand and foot, lots of witnesses.”

A significant look passed between them.

“What do you think happened to Chad, Fulvia?” John asked, with an impatient tilt of his head. The lateness of the hour had added an unwanted surreal filter to the meeting, and John tried to get the conversation back on course.

Fulvia smirked, and pulled herself up to full height. “You want my theory, then?”

“Yes, Your theory. I’d be interested to hear.” John smiled, harmlessly.

“Well,” She started, glossy red nails punctuating every gesture. “There were a lot of people in this town who didn’t like Chad, you know. I suspect that once certain people were alerted to the fact that Chad wasn’t really dead, well, they just couldn’t control themselves. Great rat bastard paid the price for surfacing, among other things. He made his bed, if you ask me.” She poured another finger of gin before leaning in conspiratorially. “Was it true they removed his tongue?”

John eyed her warily.

She shrugged. “Well, probably just a rumor. You know how these things go, everyone trying to make things sound worse than they were.”

“Fulvia, why did you call Sherlock here?”

“I’m a woman who called a handsome man at four in the morning, why do you think?”

“Fulvia.” John said, patience running thin.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get cranky, love. I just wanted to give him a present. And I need you to get it to him, before I change my mind.”

 “A present?” John grinned. He feared this was going the way of a double entendre, and lord knows what Fulvia would consider a flirtatious “present” for Sherlock to be.

She crossed to the other side of the bar and opened a lower cabinet, reaching into the very back with some difficulty and gingerly removed a plastic shopping bag. With all the pride of a hunting dog returning a kill to its owner, Fulvia placed the bag on the bartop in front of John.

“Open it,” she prompted, with a gesture of her head. “Just don’t open the bag that’s inside.”

John warily peeled back the outer layer of plastic, and peered at the item wrapped in a clear grip seal bag within. He looked up at her. “A, uh, pint glass. Interesting gift.”

“A very special pint glass.” Fulvia smiled, flashing back to the moment just a few days ago, when Chad stood in this pub and knocked back a free pint, right after he broke her nose. “One-of-a-kind, you might say. Last of its kind, certainly, as of this afternoon.”

John wrinkled his brow, not immediately comprehending her meaning.

Fulvia tucked the bag closed once more. “Is it true, what they show in those detective shows?” she asked, meaningfully.

“What?”

“That fingerprints on glass can be transferred from one thing to another with nothing but a piece of cello tape?” She pushed the bag closer to John.

He licked his lips, putting the pieces together. “Y-yes, its true.”

“Good. That’s good.” She cocked her head, as if being struck by an altogether new thought. “You know, Lily was my stepdaughter, for about a year. We didn’t have much time together. I was…involved in other things.”

John nodded.

“No excuse for it, really. But she had a mother, back then, she didn’t need a step.” Fulvia lit another cigarette. “Of course, now, things are different.”

John leaned forward. “Of course.”

“But the way I see it, it’s never too late to protect a child, is it?” She asked, and placed her hand on John’s. “Take this glass to Sherlock. Use it to protect Lily. I didn’t help out when I should’ve, the least I can do is help out now.”

“But Chad is dead,” John protested.

“One danger is gone, thank the lord, but the nick remains.” Fulvia said. “Chad was very vocal with the police about his theory that Lil was setting him up to take the fall for her mother’s murder. I don’t know who did kill poor Mel, but Lily doesn’t deserve for this to blow up in her face. And Chad was a terrible father. Let his fingerprints be his last gift to his daughter.”

 

 

 

 

 

****

“221B Baker Street, please.”

The cabbie put his foot on the gas and they floated through early-morning London traffic. John considered the bag on his lap and the contents therein, considered Melinda’s bliss, imagining Lily’s post-Chad life, considered Victor, for better and for worse. But most of all, he considered Sherlock, his Sherlock, and the stricken way he’d looked at John, torn by the choice he now faced.

John hadn’t liked seeing Sherlock so unsure of himself, no more than Sherlock had liked seeing Victor fray around the edges in Teddy’s kitchen. John Watson had never been a religious man, but he understood the inherent comfort that comes from trusting a higher power than oneself. When Sherlock was 19, Victor was that higher power, older and so much more knowledgeable in the ways of the world than he was. That dynamic remained, in spite of Sherlock’s eventual maturation and his obvious intellectual superiority over Victor. Sherlock’s fantastical deductive skills, paired with that same unparalleled intellect had gone on to qualify him as a higher power in John’s eyes, in spite of the fact that the doctor knew Sherlock’s flaws and limitations, and understood his own superiority to the detective in many areas. But seeing Sherlock doubt himself had been so foreign, so out-of-character for his cocky flatmate, that it had left John unsettled and ill-at-ease.

At the kerb, John paid the cabbie and headed up the 17 steps to the sitting room, to the kitchen, and cleared out a space on the kitchen table. He removed the grip seal bag from inside the package, and placed it on the table, staring at it for a long while, arms crossed in front of him, working his jaw.

After several stony minutes, John nodded to himself. “Alright, then,” he said decisively, to no one, and grabbed a tea towel. He flicked open the freezer, and lifted the gun from the ice bin.

Because he now understood that he had the power to take this difficult decision away from Sherlock, He didn’t even need Fulvia’s gift, although it would cement things rather nicely with Scotland Yard. But really, all it would take to resolve things was one sweep of this towel.

With one sweep of the towel, John could make this decision for Sherlock, and never look back.

One sweep of this towel would save Victor’s life, keep Sherlock’s commitment to the work intact, and allow both men to move forward, unfettered by the consequences of Victor’s manipulation. And while it could make Sherlock doubt his motives, John knew, he was willing to spend the rest of his life explaining his motives to Sherlock, just to spare him from having to make this choice.

He took a deep breath, took the gun in hand and using the tea towel, methodically removed every last fingerprint.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> John takes matters into his own hands, literally. Wonder what Sherlock will think about this turn of events…?
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- Did my mention of the Transitive Property make you scramble for your [seventh grade geometry book](http://www.regentsprep.org/Regents/math/geometry/GPB/theorems.htm)? (Yeah, I totally had to look it up, too!)
> 
> \- Did you catch the case references? “There was [a case of an unusual lodger](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventure_of_the_Veiled_Lodger), [a case involving the strange behavior of a uni professor](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventure_of_the_Creeping_Man) and even [a case involving vampires](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventure_of_the_Sussex_Vampire)…”
> 
> \- [Fulvia’s nail polish](http://kissandmakeupsbeautyblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/nail-polish-spotlight-quick-easy-to-do-nail-art-with-the-new-anny-trend-colors-3.jpg%0A) continues to make the End Notes! 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks, once more, for your comments and kudos, everybody, I love hearing your feedback (even if I was super-slack in responding again this week, I'm so sorry)!
> 
> As we near the end of this fic, I’m finding myself getting a little choked up, I have to admit. But know that I have several ideas perking for upcoming stories (yes, that was stories, plural!), so never fear. Even when this story comes to its inevitable end in a few weeks, please know that there will be more to come from me!
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your readership! <3  
> vex.


	30. "Glock"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A grand gesture deserves a grand response…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Gunplay, so if you're firearm-squeamish, might want to skip this one...

 

 

John felt Sherlock before he heard him…

…felt his eyes take in the items on the kitchen table…

…felt his gaze over his shoulder, to the gun in his hands.

John didn’t turn around.

“I…did this, Sherlock.” he said, an immediate confession. “Without further consultation, without your permission or your guidance, and knowing that you would…undoubtedly…be angry.” He swallowed, then, his fingers worrying the edge of the tea towel in his hands.

There was silence behind him. He turned, at last, to see Sherlock staring at him, his face impossible to read, and for the first time that evening, John felt the tiniest itch of doubt as to what he’d done.

“But, you-you have to understand that this decision was not made on impulse, or driven by any motive other than the realisation that I was the only one who could do this. I could do this one thing, and, and…it would take away the need for you to make an impossible choice. If I did this one thing, you wouldn’t have to compromise The Work: I would.  You wouldn’t be the one manipulated into saving Victor: I would. And at, at the end of the day, I knew that yours and Victor’s friendship might not be what it once was, but I knew that if I did this one thing, there was a chance it might…survive. And that’s important to me not because I want Victor in my life, but because you need him in yours. You were absolutely right. You’re brothers. He’s as much your brother as Mycroft is, with one exception: you listen to him. You care about what he thinks. And no matter what he’s done to you in the last week, or in the last two years, he’s a part of you.

“And all of this will probably make you think that I did this for you, because I love you, Sherlock and I would do anything to save you from even a moment’s distress. And that’s all true. But that’s not why I did this.” And at that, his voice cracked, slightly. He cleared his throat and continued. “I did this for me. For me, because I knew there was no other way for this to end without you being broken by it. And selfishly, I need you to be unbroken. For me. I need you to be strong, Sherlock. For me. And I was damned if I was going to let this fucked-up situation damage the single-most important human being ever to walk into my life.”

John waited for Sherlock to react, but he just continued to stare, and it didn’t take long for John to scramble to fill the dead air between them.

“Look, if you’re upset, if you, if you want me to…go, I can.”

No response.

“That upset, huh? I mean, do you…want to turn me in?” John asked, lamely attempting humor in the face of fear. “I mean, mishandling of evidence, pretty clearly guilty.”

“Shut up, John.” Sherlock’s voice uncoiled like a snake.

John nodded, and stared at the floor, unsure of where he should go or what he should do. The damage was done, surely, Sherlock could see that. What was done was done, and that was kind of the whole point of it, wasn’t it?

“Where’s the videotape?”

John rummaged through his coat. “It’s right here. I was going to get rid of it next, but I—di”

“Give it to me.”

The doctor did so, handing it over like a scolded child. Sherlock protectively put the tape in his dressing gown pocket.

“What’s in the bag?”

“A lager glass. Gift from Fulvia. She called.” John said, sheepishly. “It’s supposed to have Chad Wilson’s fingerprints on it.”

Sherlock made a contemplative noise, and then lifted his chin. “Go to my room, John. Wait for me there.”

“But, I…”

“John.” Sherlock’s eyes flared. “Leave me.”

 

 

 

****

It was, perhaps, one of the primary constants in BDSM: waiting. Learning patience at the hands of another, and it was right up there with accepting the consequences of one’s actions and coming to terms with the fact that _this was what you wanted_.

This was, after all, what John had wanted, all of this. He’d wanted Sherlock and when all this happened, he’d wanted him to survive this with the least amount of damage. _Unbroken_ , he’d called him, but even as he said it, John knew it was a stretched truth. No one reaches adulthood unbroken, especially not Sherlock Holmes. We all shoulder our broken pieces and carry on, and sometimes we can stop just long enough to fit a few of those pieces back together. Sherlock had done that for him. Right from the start, that bloody limp gone because Sherlock had understood him from the very beginning, hadn’t he? Opened up his brain and read him like a book, barring his most hidden chapter.

John smiled, and sat tentatively on Sherlock’s bed. That was an accomplishment of its own, to successfully keep a secret, his submissive secret, from Sherlock Holmes. But he did wonder, how would things have gone if Sherlock had known from the beginning. Can you imagine? If he’d come right out that first day at Angelo’s and owned up to the flirting, laid out his kink between courses and let the chips fall where they may…

He closed his eyes, wondering. How would Sherlock have reacted? Like a skittish colt, scared off by too much data and too much intimacy, all at once? Or would he have paid the bill, hailed a cab and taken him that very first night at 221B?

He thought about that last option for a long, hard minute…

 

 

 

****

Sherlock did not pace. He stood in the kitchen, stock still, for minutes after John had left., before suddenly reaching for his phone.

**Your thoughts on self-sacrifice? SH**

**Not a comforting text to receive from you, in the wee hours of the morning. MH**

**I’m fine. Answer the question. SH**

**Altruism is lovely, in theory, but psychological egoism suggests that no act of sacrifice is truly altruistic. Tell me, baby brother -- you’re not considering a “grand gesture”, are you? MH**

**I’m…considering a reaction to one. SH**

**I see. MH**

**Do you really? SH**

**Enough to make an educated guess. MH**

**To answer your question, though, selective investment theory proposes that close social bonds and associate emotional, cognitive and neurohormonal mechanisms evolved in order to facilitate altruism between those depending on one another for survival. MH**

**You copied and pasted that from somewhere, didn’t you? SH**

**Of course. It’s far too early for actual research. MH**

**As always, I’m warmed by your desire to help me in a time of need, Mycroft. SH**

**Says here that altruism is found even in the animal kingdom, although it’s usually based on reciprocity. That’s true. Vervet monkeys, I know, often willingly put themselves in harm’s way to protect others in their grouping. MH**

**Are you in danger, Sherlock? MH**

**I’m not a Vervet monkey, Mycroft. SH**

**The temptation for jest is hard to resist, brother mine. MH**

**I have no doubt your remarkable self-control will win over in the end. SH**

**Be kind to John Watson, Sherlock. MH**

**What makes you think this is about John? SH**

**Because it couldn’t possibly be about Victor. MH**

 

 

****

Sherlock paused, exhaled and pushed the door wide to find his soldier sitting stock still on the side of the bed, hands on thighs, head down.

“Behind my sleeping back,” He started.

John looked up, seeing the tight line of Sherlock’s mouth and his heart dropped. “Look, Sherlock, I never –“

“Am I a child who needs decisions made for him?”

“No, of course not. ,I just thought—“ Interrupted John.

“ _For_ me, precisely. _You thought for me_.” Sherlock said firmly, interrupting the interruption, his voice loud and uncompromising. “You don’t trust my judgment.”

“That’s not true!” John said, emphatically, moving to his feet. “I just wanted to spare you the decision. How could you say I don’t trust you? I’d trust you with my life, Sherlock.”

“You would?” Sherlock asked, with a tilt of his head. “Curious statement. You really would?”

“I would.” John said, with no hesitation.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking sure, okay?” John said, annoyed now.

“Enough, John. Behave.” Sherlock said, an irritated warning, and the tone in the room shifted to something that was both lighter and darker at the same time. John blinked, his mind spinning, trying to sort out the turn.

Sherlock stepped closer to John, crossing the comforts of personal space, and peered into his face. “Breathe, now, John. I just told you to behave. What do you say in response?”

John looked up at him, connections clicking. “I…say…yes, sir?”

“Knew you’d catch up eventually.” Sherlock said, his tone mocking. He followed it with two very light slaps delivered to the side of John’s face. “Good boy.” He said, and John felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

Sherlock’s hands went to John’s clothing, pulling at the buttons of his shirt, undoing them briskly, punctuating his words. “Now, let’s break the suspense, shall we? You did something without asking me, a rather big something, because you thought it was for my own good, is that right?”

John stammered his reply, his shirt open, the air cold on his skin. “N-not in so many words, Sir, but yes, I suppose so.”

Sherlock smirked. “Well then. My turn to return the favor, don’t you think?”

And at that, Sherlock Holmes pulled a gun from his waistband and aimed it, pointblank, at John.

Of course, it wasn’t just any gun. It wouldn’t be, would it?

It was THE gun, the gun from the case, the gun that John had polished bright and clean. John’s first reaction was to be incredulous, to laugh, to get the joke, but when Sherlock’s face didn’t budge, John began panicking, as would anyone facing down the barrel of a gun -- particularly someone facing down a gun in the hands of an angry and theoretically emotionally imbalanced lover. To quell the fear in his chest, John reminded himself of two critical points: one, that he truly did trust Sherlock, that he hadn’t been lying and that two, John himself had emptied that gun before he’d polished it, checking and rechecking it, because that’s just what you do.

Sherlock watched John’s initial fear recede, watched reason wash over the doctor’s perception. “I can see the gears turning.” He quipped, and continued to hold the gun with a steady hand, still pointing at John. “But the question you should be asking yourself is not whether or not the gun was loaded when you left it, John, but whether it’s been loaded in your absence.”

With a smirk, he turned, dressing gown flaring out around him and slid the bolt – shooting three times into the corner, blasting bullet holes into the wallpaper, blowing drywall chips onto the carpet.

John flinched and his blood froze. _The insane bastard had actually pointed a loaded weapon at him_ _and then discharged it into the bloody wall_.

Sherlock grinned at the destruction, and at the look on John’s face. He pushed up against him, backing him up against the footboard of the bed, cornering him. “You know what happens when people make assumptions, John,” Sherlock lectured, gun still in hand. “You made the assumption I would appreciate you making a decision for me, didn’t you?”

John had run out of words. This couldn’t be happening, but Sherlock’s body against him was undeniable, as was the feel of the pistol’s barrel against his skin. Sherlock was running the nose of the gun along the side of John’s face, and it could almost be mistaken for a tender caress. In the back of his mind, John registered that the gun’s muzzle hadn’t felt warm to the touch, but that fact would get lost in the chaos of the moment. Sherlock pressed a nimble hand to the front of John’s jeans, and felt the modest surge of John’s cock, trapped beneath denim. Sherlock pinned him with a meditative look, and considered the unquestionable appeal of the panicky doctor. He leaned in.

 “The fact of the matter is, John, in this case, your assumption just happens to have been…correct.”

Sherlock’s face broke into a smile. He nipped at John’s mouth, and kissed it, stretching his body over him and feeling his heat beneath him. When John could finally speak, he temporarily fell into step with the madman, his relief at Sherlock’s appreciation overriding the biting terror of the last few moments. But once the kissing stopped long enough for him to regain his wits, John straightened, and twisted out from under him.

“Jesus, Sherlock, stop, goddamn it. Get off me.” John insisted, and the tone of his voice got Sherlock sitting up, at least.

“You sure you want that?”

“Don’t push me.” John warned, and with a pout, Sherlock acquiesced, and the doctor turned on Sherlock with full venom. “You pointed a loaded gun at me!”

“The gun wasn’t loaded, John,” Sherlock said, flippantly, ejecting the empty chamber from the gun and tossing it to him to inspect. “You think I’d actually point a loaded gun at your head?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you to point a loaded gun at _your own_ head, you idiot.”

“Oh, do watch the namecalling, John,” Sherlock cooed, and stood. “I still have a loaded gun on my person, after all.” He opened his pocket to reveal John’s Sig Sauer concealed within. “Dressing gowns are fantastic for slight-of-hand, by the way. You really didn’t see me make the switch?”

John shook his head, still pissed, but amazed at the man on the bed beside him. “No, I really didn’t, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled to himself, and put the loaded gun on the dresser. “This was all supposed to be a thank you. Perhaps a clumsy one. I just…wanted to thank you for allowing me do the right thing.”

“So you do think this was the right choice?”

“It was the only choice, John,” Sherlock sighed. “But it felt like failure. Admitting defeat, admitting that Victor was still able to manipulate me. Not to mention compromising the work. But it was the right choice, I just would’ve hated to have to make it.”

“You wanted to thank me?” John asked, eyebrows lifted, expecting Sherlock to speak until he realized, incredulously. “Oh. You were thanking me with…?”

“A little gun kink.” Sherlock lifted his shoulder in the slightest of shrugs. “Don’t tell me it didn’t turn you on, I felt you getting thick.” The detective’s lush lips emphasized that last word in a way that John felt straight through to his cock.

John shivered. “Fair enough, just next time give me a little bit of a heads-up, yeah?”

 “I wanted to surprise you.” Sherlock said, slightly petulant. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before, you know. No one’s ever put me before themselves.”

“Mycroft has.”

“Mycroft has to. He’s family.” Sherlock said with a frown. “But you,”

“I did it for myself. I told you.” John said, dismissively. “Selfish, really.”

“Hardly.” Sherlock smiled. “You’re a Vervet Monkey, John Watson.”

John shot back, insulted, “And you’re a sodding giraffe!” The annoyance dissipated from his body before he’d even gotten the sentence out, and he was laughing by the end. “I’m serious, destroy a bit of evidence to help you out and what do I get?”

“You get called a monkey.” Sherlock said smartly, pleased with himself.

“I do.”  John agreed, and they both laughed, really laughed for the first time in some time. He stared at the brilliant man standing in front of him and wondered, for the thousandth time this week, how on earth he’d gotten so lucky – and then stopped wondering for fear of jinxing it. Impulsively, he reached for Sherlock, and pulled his hips tight and close, speaking quietly into his ear. “For future reference, assuming all due diligence has been done with the firearm, you should know that, um, gun kink? Is…very…compelling.” John’s tongue ran over his lips. “And a wonderful thank you.”

Sherlock spiked an eyebrow at this remark. There was a pause, in which he cleared his throat and ran his hands slowly across John’s neck.

“Well then…request to give you a heads-up, Dr. Watson?”

“Are you serious?”

“Are you?” Sherlock’s eyes shined mischievous.

John laughed, and scrubbed his face with his hands, and looked up, sincerely. “With every ounce of my being…”

 

 

 

****

Two hours later, John Watson was naked and on his knees on the sitting room floor, beside the sofa, tied to the hook that was hidden behind the Pinkerton skull– supporting a theory that all the artwork in the flat hid a kinky secret. He was sucking the Glock that dangled from Sherlock’s fingers, the imagery impossibly erotic, and John’s enthusiasm and skill at throating the semi-automatic weapon, explicitly for Sherlock’s amusement, was almost too much for the detective to bear. His hands grasped at his tenting pyjama bottoms, and fuck, he had a good idea…

“Stop.” He commanded, and John behaved, stopping on a dime.

He looked up expectantly. “Did I do something wrong?”

Sherlock shook his head with a smile. “Not a fucking chance.” He stood up, and handed John the gun. “Just need to get something. Do you need anything while we pause? Something to eat or drink?”

“Beer maybe?” John considered. “Think there’s one left.”

“Early in the morning for alcohol, John.”

“Early in the morning for blowing a 9mm short recoil-operated locked breech semi-automatic, Sherlock.”

“Point taken, beer it is.” Sherlock stood, but not before kissing John on the cheek, and then giving it a light slap.” God, you are so perfectly twisted, John. Bent in every  brilliant way. Forget Victor. I owe Mike Stamford for bringing your filthy, decadent self to my door...” 

John, predictably blushed, the sting on his cheek spreading to warm his face.

“Victor helped though, yeah?”

Sherlock considered matters. “Victor sped things along, sure. But I would’ve gotten here in time. I’m not nearly as emotionally stunted as he thinks.” He kissed him on the top of his head. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He left. John leaned back against the side of the sofa and considered the gun on the table. Fuck. In just a few hours, it would be thoroughly cleaned, doctored with Chad Wilson’s fingerprints and returned to the hotel ice machine for the Met to collect. Lestrade would be contacted, and that gun would be analysed and placed into an evidence box at NSY, where it would likely stay in storage until long after they were all gone from this earth. For the time being, though, this gun was their sexy-as-fuck secret, his and Sherlock’s, and the feel of it against his skin and in his mouth was decadent and perverse and positively death-defying…

On this morning, fantastic, fucked-up sex wasn’t the only reason he felt so good. Never mind that, with a little help from Fulvia, he’d resolved the Melinda Wilson case in a way that would benefit all – although the true miracle in all of this was the fact that Sherlock had accepted his intervention in the first place, with no complaints. John suspected he might have someone to thank for Sherlock’s graceful acceptance, and it if it was who he suspected, he was pleasantly surprised that Sherlock would even ask him for advice, much less follow it. He made a mental note to order up a quality umbrella in thanks…

Before they’d restarted the scene, they’d texted Victor and company to set up a dinner meeting at Angelo’s – by then, the gun would have been collected and the party would be well on their way to being in the clear. Sherlock had even anonymously left some breadcrumbs in Anderson’s e-mail, directing him towards the gang that had killed Albert Goins in Merseyside – frankly, the little shit didn’t deserve the credit he would receive for assisting that investigation, but the murder would be solved, and the responsible parties, the living ones, at least, would be held accountable.

 All’s well that ends well. Everything tied up nicely, including himself…John smiled, and pulled against the ropes. Sherlock returned to the sitting room, and helped John to his feet, bringing his arms lower, but still over his head. He fed the condensation-slicked beer bottle into John’s mouth and watched the way his muscles worked to swallow, every move a symphony.

It reminded John of a day not so long ago, when he’d sat in this very room with another bottle, another erection, the taste of beer in his mouth and never dreaming that this would ever come to pass. Sherlock kissed him then, and when they came up for air, he shot him a sly smile.

“Okay, that smile scares me,” John said, his wrists straining against the ropes, entirely unharmed and wrapped with black gaffer tape to prevent chafing. Sherlock had endearingly kissed each wrist before applying the tape, and John felt as if he could still feel the warm touch of the man’s lips trapped somewhere inside, below the cloth and adhesive.

“It should scare you,” Sherlock said with an even more cryptic smile, causing John’s stomach to positively _flip_. The doctor exhaled shakily, and he was given a long drink from the beer bottle before Sherlock placed it neatly on the table. He slid his hands along John’s waist, and considered the topography of John’s bared chest, his eyes for the first time drawn to the curious, devastating, glorious scar on the soldier’s shoulder. Suddenly, it was a scar that Sherlock’s tongue couldn’t resist exploring with a wide, open-mouthed kiss. The first touch of his mouth to the scar left John flush, embarrassed – the shame, like the disfigurement, still pink and raw, and sensitive to the touch. He pulled back instinctively, away from Sherlock, back stiffening.

“Oh, no John,” the man had responded, simply. “Don’t. Please.”

And so, John had stayed, and eventually relaxed, even, into Sherlock’s unabashed examination of this most hated place, the spot John’s eye would always wander to in the mirror in the morning, the thing that, until now, always made him grimace. From now on, though, he knew its sight would likely make him think about this moment, and that was pretty great.

“It tastes like gunpowder still.”

“That’s your imagination.”

“It does. It tastes like…heroism.”

“Heroism tastes like gunpowder?” John replied skeptically, amused that physical contact was making Sherlock wax poetic.

Sherlock looked up with a wink. “You tell me, John. You were the one sucking the business end of that Glock mere moments ago.”

“That tasted of nothing but metal and gun oil,” he said, practically.

“And to think your therapist thought you had PTSD.” Sherlock snarked, his hands moving down John’s chest, along his sides, fingers lightly grazing delicate skin. “Lovely woman, I’m sure, but a complete idiot.” He shifted lower along John’s body, his hands exploring the gentle curves of his hipbones.

“Not PTSD, then?”

“I wouldn’t shove a pistol in the mouth of a PTSD victim just for fun, John.” Sherlock said, crossly. “But an adrenaline addict?” Sherlock purred with self-satisfaction, watching the effect of his next words. “Well…I made you choke on it, didn’t I?”

“Fuck.” John exhaled, feeling his body respond to Sherlock’s words just as much as his touch.

“You liked that.”

“I did. Very much.”

“You’ll like what’s next even better.” Sherlock said, touching the surprise in his pocket with the tips of his fingers. “But first, I have something I want to do.”

John’s expression was open, compliant and eager. “I’m…all yours.”

“Yes, you are.” Sherlock said, thoughtfully. “And so you won’t object to a blindfold for the next part, will you?”

John shook his head, simply, his want amplifying with every perfect word that fell from Sherlock’s mouth.

“Sadly, the blindfold from my kit had gone missing,” Sherlock explained, casually, almost offhand. “But I think this will do nicely in its place, don’t you?” With a small flourish, he pulled his old blue scarf from his dressing gown pocket, the very scarf Victor had used on John just days before.

John…mentally…stammered.

Sherlock pretended to ignore it, and tied the scarf around John’s eyes, in the same fashion as Victor had. “As much as he likes to give me shit for my love of interrogation scenes, Victor’s got a few favorites, too – and senseplay is definitely high on his list. Coincidentally, if memory serves, he also happens to do a fairly remarkable impression of me…

“Oh, Christ,” John muttered, completely and utterly embarrassed. “When did he…”

“He said nothing, John, I assure you. He’s very discreet when he wants to be.”

“Look, Sherlock,” John started, blind and blindly fumbling for an explanation. “You have to know that I didn’t even know what was happening, until, until…”

“Until you did. And then you came like a rocket, didn’t you?” Sherlock’s voice low and sure in his ear. “Don’t be shy, John, I was incredibly flattered once I figured it out.”

John cringed, but felt the vibrations of the man’s voice in his very core.

“Now, I’m not an imposter, although I could give you a pitch-perfect Victor, if I really wanted to, _Johnny-Boy_.” Sherlock’s voice took on Victor’s drawl with ease, adopting his attitude and accent perfectly in the space of that single word, John had to admit, but Sherlock had already moved on. “But, never fear, this won’t be a redux of what you experienced already with Victor, because that would be incredibly boring. It will involve a bit of senseplay, in a manner of speaking, but while Victor focused on scent,” he said, quietly releasing the ropes. “I’ll be focusing on touch.”

And that’s when Sherlock took John sharply in hand, shoving him quickly across the room, and bent him hard and fast over the side of Sherlock’s chair.

 

 

 

****

The sight is the problem with gunplay: that raised, metal ridge that crackshots count on for aim also happens to tear up soft palates and other tender parts, if not modified before play.

Condoms take the edge off the feel of the cold metal, thus eliminating half the fun, and will rip and tear if pressed hard enough against even the thickest of sheaths, making them a less-than-desirable solution.

Some people choose to file down the sight entirely, leaving the barrel smooth and safe, but that requires a great deal of advanced preparation -- and, considering the final destination of this particular pistol, it was an option Sherlock wouldn’t have chosen even if he’d had all the prep time in the world.

Instead, Sherlock had chosen to use materials he’d had on hand to render the gun safe for John: a thin, smooth strip of gaff tape wrapped around the barrel at the point of the sight, the thick cloth of the tape cushioning against cuts.

John lay bent, where Sherlock had left him, gasping, still blindfolded, cock leaking pre-cum onto the leather cushion.

Sherlock took in the beauty of the man bent before him, an open invitation, eager and wanting with a healthy portion of apprehension, the vulnerability of the position as well as the blindfold over his eyes forming a crippling disadvantage. He hummed at the edge of arousal, waiting for Sherlock’s next move, and it would prove to be a good one. Sherlock cut right to the chase, boldly bypassing all preliminaries as he pulled down his pyjamas and pressed the length of his bare erection directly against John’s unprepared hole.

The doctor gasped at the sudden move, at the lack of prelude, and he fell forward, Sherlock’s cock pressed frustrating up against, but not into, John’s hole.

Sherlock’s words came quickly into his ear, sharp and to the point. “You know what the gun looks like, what it tastes like. Aren’t you oh, so, curious, John, as to how it feels?”

John virtually vibrated beneath him, but attempted a smartarse response. “You’re not talking about how it feels in my hand, are you Sir?”

“Clever boy.” Sherlock said, a small bit of sarcasm that made John whine. Sherlock pressed his hips tighter, but still avoided penetration. “I liked watching this gun disappear into your throat, John, the parallels to suicide strangely appealing, although not entirely analogous – gun pointing down rather than up – but still, hard to avoid thinking about how one misplaced bullet might make the whole thing end in tears…”

John keened, and bucked back against Sherlock. “Patience, John.” Sherlock said, and backed up, slapping John’s arse as a warning before pressing himself back into place. “The connotations of what’s next, though, parallels to something altogether different, something less self-destructive, something criminal. A violation. Rape, snuff, the unspeakable…”

John moaned, and ground his cock into the armrest.

“Tell me what you want, John.”

The world shifted, and the pressure _against_ , but not _into_ John’s hole was maddening. He whimpered. “Don’t make me say it.”

“You will. You’ll say it because you won’t get it otherwise, John.” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, the calm in his voice disguising the mounting need in his own cock.

“Sherlock,” John said, struggling. “Please.”

“I didn’t ask you to beg. I asked you to tell me what you want.”

John licked his lips, and tried to level his voice. “I want you to fuck my arse with that gun. Please.”

“Oh, good boy.” Sherlock said, soothingly, and he backed off, replacing his cock with slicked fingers, pressing lube into John’s arse, causing him to moan and pulse with pleasure. “Such a sick boy, my sick boy, aren’t you?”

“Yess…” John hissed, committed by his own words and now boldly needing it, greedy want taking away his fear and shame.

“How sick a slut are you, John?” he asked, before taking the gun in one hand and bringing it close to John’s ear. “Because, earlier, when I was prepping the sight…what would you do if I told you…told you that…I wasn’t quite sure which magazine I put in the gun?”

Sherlock slid the bolt and John cringed at the sound, so close to his ear.

“Would you still want me to fuck you with it, John?” Sherlock mused, and pressed the tip of the muzzle at John’s entrance. “I bet you would, you fucking adrenaline junkie. Show me how much you want it, John…”

The slut didn’t take much convincing and groaned, pushing himself backwards onto the gun in Sherlock’s hand, the cold metal feeling, god, so, so good and…filthy and wrong and fuck, he wanted it, more than any cock in that moment. Sherlock took his own length in hand with his free hand, and kept the pressure steady on the gun. Fuck, it was a gorgeous sight, John so shameless and utterly debased…

He clenched around the barrel of the gun, pressing back hard and deep, the movement pulling a moan from Sherlock’s throat. “Wish you could see this, John. Next time we’ll…we’ll record it, so you can…fuck…” He was gone, lost in the hypnotic movement of the gun against John’s flesh.

John was beyond words, grunting his response, which was quickly becoming a grunt of frustration. The gun felt fantastic, the cold so unexpectedly good against his insides, but its limitations were quickly becoming apparent. The gun was only so long, after all, and the shaft was too inflexible to even think about hitting his prostate. He struggled, and Sherlock heard his frustration, felt it himself, and they were both so close.

 _They_ were.

He and John.

He and John together.

And in a moment, a memory surfaced, placing him abruptly at the intersection of sentimentality and sexuality. In a moment, Sherlock knew exactly how he wanted this scene to end – and it wasn’t at the end of the barrel of a gun, fun though it had been. He immediately removed it from John’s arse, prompting the smaller man to moan at its loss.

“Shush, John. You know that gun isn’t going to make you cum.” Sherlock said, soothingly. “Sit,” he said, and helped John into the chair, removing the blindfold with a flick of his wrist.

John blinked in the bright room, confused and still wanting, and Sherlock gave his thigh a comforting squeeze. “Stay here. Sit here.”

“Where are you going, then?”

“Just over here.” Sherlock said, stripping off his dressing gown. He sat down in John’s chair and stroked his still-exposed cock, throwing John a knowing smile.

John wasn’t sure what was happening, but he knew he was up to play any game Sherlock wanted to play.  

“There was a time,” Sherlock said, his motions increasing in pace. “A time, just a few days ago, when I gave you a command, do you recall?”

John shot him a sardonic grin. “You’ve given me lots of commands, Sherlock. Mind narrowing that down?”

“I told you,” Sherlock recalled. “I told you to touch yourself.”

Memory of that moment, in the VIP room, eyes locked over Darcy’s shoulder, the way they’d both been immediately gone, shivering…and suddenly, they were both there again, just two men, sitting across from one another, their desire automatic and palpable and suddenly, impossibly, wonderfully requited.

Emotion bloomed in John’s chest. “I remember.”

“I remember, too.” Sherlock said. “And I was so surprised and pleased when you did, John. Can you do it again?”

John did so, without hesitation, touched himself while Sherlock watched, because that’s what Sherlock wanted, had wanted, what he wanted today, and fucking hell, John hoped he’d want it every day from now until the end of time. “Yes, Sherlock. God yes.”

Sherlock watched his movements and matched them, matching pace and gasping, both so on edge.  “Can you make yourself cum for me?” He asked, reciting the second part of the incantation from that night.

And John smiled, reliving the pull of emotion from that night so strongly it made his heart hurt. He nodded, eyes still locked to Sherlock’s, their bodies in sync, their hands gripping themselves so tightly. “Yes. Sir.”

Sherlock’s breath was labored as he gasped out the third and final command of that night, the one that had, up until now, gone unanswered. With unexpected tenderness, Sherlock said, finally, “Cum for me, then, I want to watch you.”

This time, John didn’t run.

This time, Sherlock didn’t leave.

This time, there was no panic attack, no miscommunication, no crime to solve and no other people around to complicate matters.

This time, they both stayed where they were, stroking and lost in each other’s eyes until they both came, louder and longer than either of them expected. Nearly a week’s worth of anticipation resolved in one fantastic crescendo before they both fell back into their chairs, exhausted and spent and feeling more loved than they felt they had a right to, the incantation happily and finally fulfilled.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> Fun times at 221B, yeah?
> 
> Shout out to those of you who’d hoped there would be more smut before we were through (you naughty things, you)!
> 
>  
> 
> -Fun fact: The adult male Vervet Monkey really does have a pale blue scrotum. Happily, neither John nor Sherlock do, after this chapter…
> 
> \- Studies in [altruism](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Altruism). Mycroft and I both shortcut with [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Altruism_in_animals%0A), pass it on…
> 
> \- "Sodding Giraffe" is a tip-of-the-hat to one of our fandom's best and brightest, [snogandagrope](http://snogandagrope.tumblr.com/), whose bloody fantastic WIP ["Checkpoint Charlie"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/713540/chapters/1320116) features this, my favorite Sherlock burn...
> 
> \- [“I wouldn’t put it past you to point a loaded gun at your own head, you idiot.”](http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lvr8fmoBy11qiqwx9.png)
> 
> \- The name of the gun is a [Glock 17](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glock), and contrary to popular assumption, it’s not a “plastic gun” – it’s actually got quite a number of metal parts, as John can readily attest…
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks, as always, for your comments and kudos! Man, I’m going to miss your feedback when this is done!
> 
> And, no, we’re still not done. Still more bows to neatly tie, and maybe even a tease or two left before it’s all over…so stay tuned for the last two chapters!
> 
> <3  
> vex.


	31. "Why Him"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funeral, a fond farewell and an answered question…

 

The day of Melinda’s funeral was sunny, uncharacteristically bright for London. Those of a more spiritual inclination took it as a sort of sign, a blessing from Mel, who had been sunny herself in spite of all the dark skies that life had sent her way.

Those of a less spiritual inclination were just thankful for the fair weather.

The service was held in a modern-looking chapel with large glass windows that looked out onto the green hills of the cemetery beyond. There were plenty in attendance, including a good showing of people from Mel and Victor’s crowd from the old days. Sherlock recognized a few faces that had, apparently, bled into his time with Victor, and he nodded curtly when they, in turn, recognized him.

Sherlock sighed, bored. He despised funerals, although he’d not been to many in his life. A grandparent and an aunt, those were the funerals he’d been forced to attend as a boy, Mycroft refusing to let him view the open casket both times. As an adult, he’d attended exactly one funeral - shortly after he left rehab, one of the girls in his Network had OD’d. Sherlock attended her funeral in the hopes that it would somehow reinforce his efforts to stay clean, but also because he was pretty sure that not many others would be in attendance. He’d been right.

The only reason he’d come today, to Mel’s funeral, was to appease John.

“Do it for Victor,” he’d said, as he tucked in his shirt and did up his cuffs. 

“What? Destroying evidence and saving him from prison wasn’t enough?”

“Okay, do it for Lily.”

“The thoroughly disagreeable girl who calls me a perverted junkie every chance she gets?”

John rolled his eyes. “Fine, do it for me, then, okay? Close the case, put it behind us. Besides, Victor’s leaving for the states after, and we can say goodbye.”

Sherlock had shrugged then, and kissed John on his forehead. “For you.”

John had beamed, then, and an hour later, Sherlock found himself sitting beside him, on an uncomfortable wooden pew in the chapel, deducing the crowd to pass the time.

“The man in the purple tie is a gambler and the woman wearing the hat is having an affair with the man with the unfortunate acne scars.” He whispered to John, not quietly enough apparently, as it garnered a nervous glance from acne scars.

“I think you’re right,” John said, amused.

“I’m always right.”

“Modest, too, right Rabbit?” Victor said wryly. He sat to Sherlock’s left. In the short span of time since the evidence had been doctored and recovered by the Yard, Victor and Sherlock had talked, and reached an understanding: Victor understood the huge debt of gratitude he owed Sherlock and John, and Sherlock understood the need for forgiveness. There were still cracks in the friendship that would require mending, but with a little luck, they’d heal over with time. 

“Well, modesty _is_ my best quality, Victor.” Sherlock said, with a wink, prompting John to giggle, and Lily, who sat on Victor’s other side, to quiet him with a glaring look. All three boys behaved for the rest of the memorial…

 

 

****

After the graveside service, in which Mel’s cremated remains were interred in one of a series of outdoor niches that reminded Sherlock of miniature, personalized morgue drawers, the funeral attendees were invited to a reception at The 12 Bar Club.

Anton had set up a few extra tables, put out some simple refreshments and put on a playlist of Mel’s favorite music from back in the day. A monitor was placed on the bar, and it played a video memorial that Teddy had edited together, pictures and video clips from Melinda Wilson’s life, and John noticed that the picture from the fridge, the one with Teddy and Lily and Mel at the seaside, held a prominent place in the presentation, her far-away look easier to parse now that John knew her story in full.

“She was a beautiful woman.” Victor said behind him.

John turned. “Do you regret…” he paused, not knowing how to phrase what he wanted to say, but knowing he wouldn’t need to.

Victor nodded. “Of course I do. As shitty a father as I would have been, I wouldn’t have been as bad as Chad, that’s for sure. I regret not being here for Lily. As for Mel, I don’t know, I’m sure I would have fucked it up if we’d tried for something permanent.”

“Why do you do that?” John asked. “Cut yourself down like that? You act like you have no capacity for love, no loyalty, but I know that’s not true.”

Victor scratched at his jaw line, a look of doubt on his face. “You’ve known me for all of what? One week? And in that week, I detonated a bomb on a nearly twenty-year friendship. The only reason it didn’t blow up in my face was you. So how can you possibly see me as worthy?”

John took a long draw from his bottle of beer. “Because you managed a nearly twenty-year friendship with the most difficult man on the planet – and up until the last few years, it was pretty smooth sailing, am I right?”

“That’s true enough.” Victor’s expression softened. “I do love him, you know.”

“I know.”

“And I’m trusting you not to hurt him.”

John pulled back, a look of surprise on his face. “Me? Hurt him?”

“Yeah, you.” Victor said sharply. “You try to hide it behind all the blushing and those sweet little jumpers, but you and I both know that you’re a natural-born flirt and you’re miles ahead of Sherlock when it comes to relationships. You hurt him and I will hurt you, do you understand?”

“Are you serious?” John said, somewhat defensively. “I thought you endorsed this. What happened to bibbidi-bobbidi-boo?”

“I’m still your fairy godfather, man,” Victor said with a steely grin, “But I will not hesitate to shove my magic wand up your ass in a very unpleasant way if you break his heart.”

John paused, a little chafed, having expected to receive this particular speech from Mycroft, if anyone, but…he understood. Sherlock was a grown man, but in this particular aspect of life, he was vulnerable. “You don’t have to worry,” he said, finishing off the bottle. “I’m ridiculously in love with him, you know. Have been for a long time.”

“So, it’s official, then?”

“Very nearly.” John said, tearing at the label on the empty.

“Nearly? What are you waiting for?”

“For Sherlock to answer a question.” Victor’s turn to look surprised, and John quickly spoke to dismiss the misconception. “Oh, Christ, not THAT question, for fuck’s sake. No wedding bells, alright? That’s…more than a little premature.”

“I dunno, I can see it,” Victor smiled. “You’d both be fucking sexy in matching tuxedoes…”

“Down, boy,” John grinned back.

“If he’s behaving like a dog, I can always put him on a leash, John…” Sherlock appeared over Victor’s shoulder, wearing a wide smirk. “I should warn you, though, he looks infinitely better in a harness.”

Victor shook his head. “You are never going to let me live that down, are you? Be warned, John: roll over ONE time for a Domme in Holland, and you will get a lifetime of shit from this one…”

And so it went, the rest of the afternoon, the three of them talking and laughing with each other, and honoring Mel’s memory with Teddy and Lily and Victor’s old friends. A band played, later, and countless toasts were made to the woman prematurely taken from this world – but only a small, select few understood that while she may have been taken, she left this world on her own terms, and that made her leaving a whole lot easier to bear.

 

 

 

****

Later that day, the three of them stood outside Victor’s flat in South Ken, Victor’s suitcases at his feet.

“So, back to the states?” John asked, squinting in the sunlight.

“Yeah, but not for long,” Victor smiled, holding up his left hand, which sported Mel’s ring. “Gotta come back and guide my wayward child.”

“If anyone can, you can, Victor.” Sherlock intoned, “Just be sure to check the fire basket now and again.”

“Yeah, ain’t that the shit? Gonna have to shut down the business, at least for a while, if she and I are going to live together.”

“You’re living together?” John asked.

“Yeah. Lil thought the house had too many memories, and my flat’s closer to her school, anyway.” Victor kicked at the pavement beneath his feet. “I don’t know if its gonna work, but we’re going to give it a shot.”

Sherlock grinned. “Can’t believe you’re someone’s father.”

Victor put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “She’s practically grown, I can’t do that much damage. Then again,” he said, eyeing Sherlock, “I am fairly experienced at mentoring young adults, aren’t I, Bunny?”

Sherlock gave him a good-natured shove. “Piss off, Victor.”

Victor shoved him back. “Fuck off, Rabbit, you know it’s true.”

John shook his head, watching them bicker. “You know we’re both going to miss you.”

“Aww, Johnny-Boy,” Victor said, wrapping his arm around the doctor’s shoulder. “I won’t be gone long, just long enough to put the business in New York on standby and pack up my things.”

“Oi, on your bike, Victor,” Sherlock flared, jealous at the gesture. “Or don’t you have a plane to catch?”

“He’s a bit possessive, isn’t he?” Victor said, with a wink to John, and threw his other arm around the wound-up Sherlock, squeezing them both tight. “Feeling left out, are you, Rabbit? Fine, I’m gonna miss both of you boys, alright?” He planted a wet kiss on each of their cheeks. “And I owe the both of you more than I can ever say. That’s the truth. I owe you my life, and Lily’s and Teddy’s, too, the hoarding bastard.” He dropped his arms, looking from one to the other. “I mean it. I know it meant sacrifices from both of you.”

“Victor,” John started, but Victor interrupted.

“Just let me say this, John,” he said, firmly. “I need to say this. I need to apologize for putting you both in the position I put you in, and I need to thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”

“You’ve already said all you need to say,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, and I’ll continue to say it for the rest of my life, you asshole, so get used to it.”

The cab pulled up then, and Victor kissed both men once more, with equal intensity, and together they carried his bags to the car.

“I mean it, I’ll be back before you know it,” Victor said, standing in the doorway of the cab. “And in my absence, you two make this…whatever you guys are…official, ok? I love you both.”

Sherlock nodded, trying hard to conceal the fact that Victor’s words had made an impact, and John smiled and said goodbyes for the both of them. Victor climbed into the backseat – and then made sure to leave them laughing in the end, giving them each the finger through the car window as the taxi pulled away.

 

 

 

****

Mrs. Hudson had returned home from her sister’s by the time they returned from South Ken, and before they managed to get halfway up the stairs, she’d put both of them to work. John was tasked with bringing in her luggage from the hall, while Sherlock was put to work fixing a minor plumbing problem that had surfaced in her flat.

“Do you even know how to fix plumbing?” John asked, critically. Because really, since when is Sherlock Holmes a plumber?

“Of course I’m not a plumber, John,” Sherlock said with a frown, prompting John to try very hard not to believe the man could actually read minds. “But I am quite mechanically inclined. You should see some of the things I’ve built.”

“Besides, he fixed the same problem in your kitchen sink just last year.” Mrs. Hudson explained. “He knows just what to do.”

John was, once again, amazed. Was there anything the man couldn’t do? “Well, do you need tools or anything? I could go upstairs and get the—”

Sherlock shrugged. “Nah, Mrs. Hudson has a toolbox. I’ll be up in a bit.”

“I’ll send him back with biscuits. Will save me a trip up the stairs.” Mrs. Hudson said cheerily, and shooed him off with a hand gesture.

The minute John was out the door and up the stairs, she flipped on the TV, turned the sound up just loud enough to disguise conversation and turned sharply to Sherlock, taking his hands in hers, and kissing him loudly upon his cheek. “My darling boy -- I _told_ you I had a feeling about John Watson, didn’t I? Right from the first moment I saw him, so neat and tidy. If you boys would ever just listen to me, I have a sixth sense about these sorts of things!”

“Alright, alright Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock blushed at the display, at her gushing pride at being the first to see the sparks (though, arguably, Sherlock thought, once again, that honor probably belonged to poor old Stamford).

“Shall I put on some tea?”

“I’m not here for tea, Mrs. H, I need some bloody advice. That’s why I texted you.”

“Well, Sherlock, I _can_ give advice and drink tea at the same time, you know.” Mrs. Hudson said with a grin, and put the electric kettle on to boil. “So, let’s have a nice cuppa and you can tell me all that I’ve missed.”

For the next ten minutes, Sherlock gave her the long and short of what had happened over the last week, an honest-to-god feat, considering he never once mentioned the words “Dom”, “Sub”, “BDSM”, “handcuff”, “Glock” or the phrase “tampering with evidence”. Leaving out all the sordid details somehow managed to turn it into quite a sweet story of two men falling in love against the backdrop of a heartbreaking murder case – and while she’d never approved of that Victor whats-his-name (he was altogether too pleased with himself and far too flirtatious for her taste, even for an American), Mrs. Hudson was happy to see that he’d at least done one good turn by bringing Sherlock and John together.

“So, what’s the problem, dear?” She asked, and emptied the packet of chocolate biscuits onto a floral-patterned plate. “Not that I minded having an excuse to leave my sister’s one day early – those grandchildren of hers have certainly grown into horrible little beasts – but what was so important that it couldn’t wait one more day?”

“He wants to know, ” Sherlock paled, and ran a hand through his hair. “Rather he’s insisting on knowing, erm…’why him’.”

“’Why him’?”

“Yes. He said “Why me?” and said that he couldn’t consider us to be an official, you know, couple, until he knew exactly why I chose him.” Sherlock bit into a biscuit and looked somewhat anxiously at the landlady.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and shook her head. How could this boy be such a genius in everything else, and such a complete idiot when it came to this? “Well, Sherlock. Why _did_ you choose him?”

Sherlock drew his legs up under himself. “Well, I certainly don’t know. I mean, he did save my life, I suppose that could be it, but then again, what if he’s right – what if I only love him because Victor liked him?”

“But you _do_ love him, Sherlock?”

“Of course I do, it’s John!” Sherlock said, groaning with the realization. “But there’s no point of it if my answer is wrong. If I get it wrong, he won’t love me back. And he said not to answer until the case was over, and well, the case is over, Mrs. H.! You have to help me!”

Mrs. Hudson stood up, walked over to her kitchen junk drawer and pulled out a stray sheet of lined notebook paper and a stubby pencil that had last been sharpened with a knife. She placed both items in front of him matter-of-factly before looking at her watch. “ _Escape to the Country_ is on in five minutes, and tonight they’re in Sussex. I’m going to have a sit and watch my program, and while I do that, you’re going to spend the next hour writing down all the things you love about John Watson, leaving nothing out. Nothing is too big or too trivial to include. When you are done, you will have a thorough answer to the doctor’s question, I promise you.”

Sherlock picked up the pencil, looking doubtful. “What if I get it all wrong?”

She stopped then, and kissed the seated Sherlock on the very top of his head. “If your answer isn’t good enough for him, well, his loss. But my sixth sense is giving me a very good feeling about all of this.” She patted him on the shoulder and headed for her couch.

“Mrs. H, I do have to ask,” Sherlock said, with a tiny bit of snark. “Did you have a similarly good feeling about Mr. Hudson before you married him?”

“Never you mind about that,” she said crossly, and crossed to her chair in front of the telly. “My program’s about to start. You get writing!”

 

 

 

****

A little over an hour later, Sherlock said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and climbed the seventeen steps up to 221B, with his heart quite literally in his hands. Numerous sheets of neatly inscribed paper had been hastily folded into fourths, and he carried them concealed in the palm of his hand.

He had no confidence whatsoever that Hudder’s plan would work, or that it was even a plan at all. Sometimes when she got into her “herbal soothers” she’d talk nonsense for hours on end, so he did have legitimate reason to fear.

He found John puttering in the kitchen when he returned home, washing up some dishes and cleaning up the remnants from this morning’s breakfast.

“All good with the plumbing?” John asked, looking at the clock. “Took a while, didn’t it?”

“Well,” Sherlock said, putting down the plate of chocolate biscuits and delivering an exaggerated eyeroll. “She made tea and insisted on telling me all about her trip to her sister’s. Apparently the grandchildren have grown into horrible little beasts.”

“God bless you, you’re a good man, Sherlock Holmes.”

 _Here’s hoping you still think that by the time I get to the end of my list_ , Sherlock thought.  “Can we, um, sit for a moment?”

John furrowed his brow, catching the note of tension in his voice. “Something wrong?”

“I don’t know, you’ll have to tell me.” Sherlock said, and prompted him to sit beside him at the kitchen table.

“Are you feeling well?” John asked, peering at the light sheen of sweat on Sherlock’s face and worry lines around his mouth. “Is Mrs. H…?”

“No, for god’s sake, she’s fine, John. I’m fine, you’re fine, we’re all fine!” Sherlock said in manic exasperation.

“Okay, you’re scaring me now, Sherlock.”

“Well, that makes two of us.” Sherlock muttered.

John stammered, utterly confused by his flatmate’s behaviour. “What’s all this about?”

“The case is over, John!” Sherlock said, emphatically.

“Yeah, I know,” John said, with a confused smile. “I was there, it all…sorted out. Why is this news?”

“The _case_ is _over_!” Sherlock repeated, adding even more emphasis. “And you said that when the case was over, you wanted an answer to your bloody question!”

“My bloody ques…” John realized what was happening all at once. “Right. My question.”

“Yes, your question.”

“Sherlock, we don’t have to do this, you know, immediately, I just didn’t want you to answer before we’d—“

“No!” Interrupted the detective. “We have to do this and we have to do it now. I can’t wait another moment without knowing.”

John’s look of concern bloomed into a small smile. “You…can’t wait?”

But Sherlock was too nervous to pick up on John’s expression, and he simply cleared his throat, and began.

“Alright.” He said, his leg moving nervously under the table. “Earlier this week, you asked me why I chose you, and I should tell you that this was not a simple assignment, John. I’ve had serial killer cases that were easier to deduce.”

“It wasn’t meant to be a challenge, Sherlock,” John explained. “It should be fairly simple to answer, I would think.”

“No, no John, that’s where you’re wrong!” Sherlock leaned forward, excitedly. “Because of you, because of who you are! From what I’ve seen, most people have a specific quality that draws people to them, that one, shining thing that puts them head and shoulders above everyone else on the planet, to that one person. But you, you _don’t have_ that one thing!”

John’s smile faded as he processed Sherlock’s words. “Wait, I’m…sorry? What did you…?”

Sherlock continued. “Let’s face it, John, it’s not like you’re particularly better looking than most of the men on the planet. Or smarter, or charismatic or even better in bed. You’re not particularly skilled or talented in any one area…”

“Okay, Sherlock,” John said, trying to keep hold of his temper. “What exactly are you trying to tell me?”

Sherlock carried on unaware of the other man’s reaction. “You see, there’s no one thing I can point to and say ‘There, that – that’s the reason I love you!’ because John,” he paused, his expression earnest. “There is no _one_ reason I love you. I love you for hundreds of reasons, maybe even thousands, but I would need more time and a lot more paper.” He unfolded the sheets of paper in his hands, each one lettered front and back in small, neat print, each line numbered. “The fact is, you’re the most fascinating person I’ve ever met in my life John, and these are just the first 312 reasons why I love you.”

Sherlock pushed the packet of papers to John, who sat there, open-mouthed, and gingerly picked each page up, one at a time, his eyes catching entries like _“3) He’s the single bravest man I’ve ever met”_ , and _“78) The way he looks at me when I say something particularly clever”_ and _“242) The smell of his hair (v. good)”._

John took a deep breath. “You…wrote all these?” he asked, marveling at the papers and the words within.

“I did, but like I said, if you need more, I can give you more,” Sherlock was quick to explain. “I’ll just need some more time and maybe a spreadsheet might be bett—“

Sherlock wouldn’t finish his sentence.

He couldn’t.

Not with John’s mouth over his, and his hand pulling on his, pulling him up from the table.

“We’re…good, then?” Sherlock asked, when John’s mouth finally left his.

John nodded, with a giddy smile. “Yeah, we’re better than good.”

“I really don’t mind finishing the list.”

“Sherlock.” John said, putting his forefinger over the other man’s mouth. “It’s brilliant, and it’s perfect, and I love you, you complete nutter!”

“I’m a nutter?” Sherlock stammered. “Me? I’m a nutter?”

“You’re fantastic, Sherlock.”

“Does that mean that,” the detective swallowed. “That…”

“Yes.” John said, his eyes bright. “Sherlock, yes. It means I choose you, too.”

And with that, John took Sherlock’s hand in his and led him down the hall and into their bedroom, letting the door close quietly behind them.

It wouldn’t open again until well into the following afternoon…

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
> Let’s just slip a “Do Not Disturb” sign on that doorknob and let our boys spend some quiet time alone…
> 
> Before we get to the usual end notes, I do have something special to share – Tumblr user [some-cool-name](http://some-cool-name.tumblr.com/) made some [awesome fan art](http://i.imgur.com/FcwnIVU.jpg), based on “The Rabbit Revealed”! So go give her lots of love for this fantastic artwork!
> 
> Now, back to our regularly scheduled End Notes…
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> -Everything you ever wanted to know about funerals in London – kudos to the fine folks at the City of London for publishing this [super-helpful.pdf](http://www.cityoflondon.gov.uk/things-to-do/green-spaces/cemetery-and-crematorium/Documents/Pre%20Funeral%20Brouchure.pdf)!
> 
> \- Sherlock didn’t come up with [the “modesty” line](http://meetville.com/images/quotes/Quotation-Jack-Benny-quality-best-Meetville-Quotes-270227.jpg), but borrowed it from a great source – [the one and only Jack Benny](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Benny). Sometimes cleverness is all about knowing who to steal material from…
> 
> \- I have no doubt that Victor would look [fucking fantastic in a harness](http://www.honour.co.uk/leather-male-harness-black-one-size-l1764-blko-s.php)…
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for all your kind comments and messages to my Tumblr page. They fill my heart and inspire me more than I can say!  
> One more chapter before this story’s over, y’all!  
> Stay tuned until the very end!  
> <3  
> Vex.


	32. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later...

**_One Year Later_ **

 

There was no hope in it, Sherlock thought: they’d have to start all over again.

“For fuck’s sake, John,” he said, “How is it possible that you are a grown adult and still don’t know how to knot a bowtie?”

“Well, pardon me, but there’s not been much call for formal attire in my life, has there?” John snarked.

Sherlock stopped, tinge of uncertainty mid-knot. “Is that your way of telling me that we don’t go to nice places?”

John winked at the third man in the room. “I dunno, it has been a while since we went on a proper date…”

“Sounds like it’s time to up your game, Rabbit,” Victor grinned, pinning a white- rose to his lapel. He stared in the mirror as he did, and then smiled, pushing his hair in place. “Shit, I look fucking fantastic!”

Sherlock and John turned to take in Victor in full regalia: he wore a dark purple, embossed print suit with velvet lapels. His shirt was a crisp white, and it was paired with a skinny tie in a matching shade of violet. On anyone else, it would have been ridiculous, impossible, but on Victor it was perfect, just the right amount of peacock with a nod towards quirk.

“Wow! Careful you don’t outshine the bridesmaids, Vic,” warned John.

“Too late,” Sherlock said, amused. “It’s preposterous, but brilliant. Vintage?”

“Not exactly.”

“Designer?”

A broad smile broke on Victor’s face. “Maybe one day.”

Sherlock paused. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“I’m saying.” Victor confirmed, and turned to the mirror again. “Do you like it? It took close to three weeks just to get the lapels right, it was a real bitch.”

“Fancy. Does that mean it’s a Bespoke suit?” John asked, still not getting it.

“That means it’s a Trevor original.” Sherlock explained.

“Wait, what?” John’s mouth dropped, and he turned to the American. “You…made that suit?”

Victor shrugged shyly, an expression so rarely seen on Victor’s face, it shocked the doctor a little. “I couldn’t find what I wanted in the shops, and it was an important occasion, so I thought I might try my hand at making what I wanted.”

“You made that suit, with your own hands? Since when do you even sew?”

“I don’t. I mean, I didn’t.” Victor said. “I sketched out my design and then Bunny called in a favor with a seamstress. She’s been holding my hand and teaching me how to sew ever since.”

Sherlock’s turn to be gaped at by John. “That’s fantastic. How come you never told me?”

“Wanted it to be a surprise,” said Sherlock, with a smile, and then, as an aside, “Plus I wasn’t sure if he’d even finish.”

John shook his head, amazed. “So, is this, what? A new career?”

“For now it’s just sewing,” Victor said seriously, perched on the arm of the couch and lighting a cigarette. “But with the consulting chemistry business on hold, I thought it might be a good idea to, you know, try my hand at something else.”

Sherlock primped at John’s tie one more time. “There, that should do it.”

John lifted his chin. “We good?”

“Good,” Sherlock said to John, with confidence, “But we’d best ask our consulting designer…”

They both turned, pulling at their cuffs, and waited for his appraisal. They wore matching Armani single-button wool tuxedos – an extravagance, but they had to match, and Sherlock wasn’t about to wear a rental. Besides, the Armani made John’s arse look like a work of art, or so said Sherlock.

Victor sat up as he took in the two of them, and let out a stream of smoke, followed by a long, low whistle. “Fucking hell,” he said. “I told you you’d be sexy in matching tuxedos…”

Sherlock smirked. John blushed.

“In fact, you look like you should be on top of a cake.” Victor drawled, winking.

“One wedding at a time, Victor,” “John said, with a shake of the head. “It never quits with you, does it?”

“A fairy godfather’s work is never done.” 

There was a knock, and Teddy poked his head in the door, wearing a tux that matched Sherlock and John’s. “Five minutes, guys. Vic, you’re wanted up front.”

Victor stood, with a nervous sigh and slapped both men on the shoulders. “See you out there. Wish me luck!”

“Looking good, Victor.” John said.

“Don’t fuck it up, arsehole!” teased Sherlock, and slapped his ass as he turned to leave.

 

 

****

According to Hindu tradition, rain on one’s wedding day is lucky, foretelling of a strong marriage, as a wet knot is far more difficult to untie than a dry one.

Sherlock and John stood at the altar together, and watched the bridesmaids filter in, on the arms of the groomsmen, a motley crew of man-boys who’d cleaned up almost as well as the groom had. Teddy stood beside them in a smart tux with a fresh haircut and new shoes, nervous. So nervous, in fact, that he didn’t hear the shift in the music. Sherlock placed his hand on his shoulder, directing his attention to the back of the room.

Everyone turned as the bride entered.

Lily was luminous on this rainy day, in a long-sleeved gown, smiling behind her veil. Gone were the worries of the previous year, and in their place, some of the bliss that Melinda had wished for her in those last moments. She walked down the aisle with her father at her side, resplendent in his purple suit – a purple that perfectly matched the flowers in his daughter’s bouquet, and John couldn’t help but wonder which came first.

Victor and Lily paused at the end of the aisle, as the officiant stepped forward.

"Who presents this woman to be married to this man?" she asked.

Victor gave her a nod, and then carefully spoke. "On behalf of all who have gathered here, and on behalf of those not able to be with us today,” he looked to Lily and squeezed her hand, letting her squeeze it back before finishing the sentence. “I do."

He kissed her then, on the cheek, through her veil, and let go of her hand.

You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to notice the tears in his eyes as he sat down to watch Lily Victoria Wilson become Lily Victoria James.

 

 

****

Just before the reception, Lily gripped Sherlock’s arm, in a small panic. “You have to help me!”

“What’s wrong?” He asked, staring down at the hand on his arm, newly adorned with a sparkly wedding band.

“My heel broke and no one has any glue– and Teddy and I haven’t even had our first dance yet!” She fretted. “I’d ask Victor, but I he’s still out there with the photographer.”

Sherlock looked out the window, saw Victor being manhandled into position beside Teddy’s Mum, the posing parents of the happy couple. Whoever would’ve imagined Victor would ever play this part, playing Father of the Bride?

“Sherlock, can you help me?” Her eyes, pleading.

“Of course I _can_.” Sherlock said, but remained unmoving.

Lily, frustrated, rolled her eyes. “Christ, okay, _will_ you help me?” She waited, and then added. “Please?”

He sighed, grabbed her hand, and led her down the hall into the busy catering kitchen just long enough to swipe a bottle of white vinegar from their pantry.

Lily whined. “Vinegar? I need my heel fixed, not made into salad dressing.”

Sherlock groaned. “Do shut up, Lily. You never know, you just might learn something useful.”

He led her farther down the hall, three doors down, to the event hall’s employee breakroom. It was equipped with a few vending machines, a microwave oven, a small refrigerator and a coffee maker. Sherlock put the vinegar down and flipped open some cabinets and drawers until he found coffee filters and a plastic knife. “Check the fridge, will you, and pray there’s milk inside.”

Lily furrowed her brow, wondering what Sherlock was doing. She peered inside and found what he was looking for. “Small bottle – will this do?”

He nodded. “Perfect. Just enough. Now, if we’re lucky,” he reached over and opened the freezer door, delighting at the ancient box of baking soda in the back. “So predictable, brilliant! Now, Lily, watch and learn…”

Sherlock poured the milk into a large coffee mug, and popped it into the microwave. When it was hot, he removed it from the oven, poured in a small amount of the stolen vinegar and stirred it with the plastic knife. Almost immediately, Lily watched the milk begin to separate, eventually settling on the bottom of the mug.

“That’s pretty cool.”

“Science is pretty cool.”

“What are you doing?”

“What are _we_ doing – I need your help for this next bit.” Sherlock said, and shifted over to the sink. He handed her the mug and grabbed the coffee filter from the countertop, opening it wide. “Now, I’ll hold this open, you pour the contents of the mug into the filter. Mind your dress.”

Lily, for once, did as she was told, and carefully poured the contents of the mug into the coffee filter. The liquid whey moved through it and into the sink, leaving behind the solid curds. Sherlock gently squeezed the filter to remove the excess liquid.

“Rinse out that mug, if you will, and pour in some baking soda…no, a little more. Good.” Sherlock instructed. “Now, add some water from the tap and use the knife to stir it.”

“Wait - are we, _making_ glue?”

“Yes, we’re making glue.”

“Didn’t know there was baking soda in glue.”

“There isn’t,” Sherlock explained, patient for once. “Casein is a family of related phosphoproteins found in cow’s milk. You need heat and vinegar to separate it out, but the vinegar makes the casein curds acidic. You ready?”

She nodded, and he emptied the contents of the filter back into the mug.

“Good, stir that well.” Sherlock continued, and reached for a second coffee filter. “The baking soda is just there to neutralize the acid, that’s what’s happening now.” He reached for a second coffee filter. “We filter it one more time, squeeze out the water, like this.” He pressed his bodyweight onto the filter, pressing down hard to extract all the water he could. “And, voila…”

He opened up the filter like a flower, revealing a small amount of white paste at the center.

She clapped, amazed. “Sherlock, that’s amazing!”

The detective grinned to himself. Praise from Lily? Unheard of. His and John’s inclusion in the wedding party had pretty much been at Teddy and Victor’s insistence, something she gave in to rather than actively supported, he knew, so praise from her was a singular event. “If you think that’s amazing, you should really talk to your Father. He’s a self-taught chemist you know, and not all of its drugs-related.” He looked at her meaningfully. “As for this glue, it’s better when given more time to dry, but what needs must. Give me your shoe.”

They sat at a lunch table and she handed him the broken shoe. He dabbed a generous portion of the casein glue onto the heel and pressed it into place on the sole. “Takes a bit to set, “ he explained.

“Is it strong?”

“Remarkably so. Musical instruments that lasted a century or more were made using casein glue. It was used in woodworking, furniture making, even early aircraft.”

“They made airplanes using glue made out of milk?” She marveled. “That’s insane.”

“It’s quite strong – waterproof, even. Definitely get you through one night of dancing.” Sherlock said.

There was a pause in the conversation, as they both eyed the heel pressed against Sherlock’s hand. Awkward.

Lily avoided Sherlock’s eye, and shifted in her chair. “Look, I’m…sorry, Sherlock. I’ve been an absolute beast to you, especially in the beginning.”

Sherlock, snarky. “Yep.”

“I mean, you are still a pervert, but so is my dad after all, and it’s really none of my business. And you’re not a junkie. Not anymore. I get that now.”

Sherlock inhaled, and relented. “Perhaps we…got off on the wrong foot. And your father is a very dear friend, obviously…”

“…and he owes you and John his life. We all do.”

Sherlock considered her, appraisingly. “Are you familiar with the concept of a reboot?”

“Yeah, not an idiot, of course I am.”

Sherlock lifted his eyebrow. “Then let’s call it a reboot, then.” He shifted the shoe to his left , so he could extend his right hand to the girl. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, nice to meet you.”

There was a pause, and for one bitter moment, Sherlock was sure she was going to leave him hanging…until she smiled, and accepted his hand in hers. “Lily James. Nice to meet you, too.”

There was a moment, a smile, and it was good.

“Well, Lily James,” said Sherlock, pulling his hand back to test the adhesion of the heel, tugging on it slightly, “I think we’re set – care to give it a try?”

He held out the repaired shoe to her, and she accepted, slipping it cautiously onto he foot. “Oh my god, that actually worked! Our glue worked! It’s holding!”

Sherlock smiled, amused at how surprised she was. “Told you you’d learn something useful.” They stood, and she tested out a few steps.

“This is fantastic!” She twirled around, her dress flaring out around her.

Sherlock nodded his head towards the door. “Go on, go dance. I’ll clean up in here.”

“Thank you, Sherlock. Honestly. You’re a lifesaver.” She beamed, and kissed him on his cheek.

He blushed, slightly. “Go, Mrs. James. Your husband is waiting.”

She ran out the door, and Sherlock cleared the counter, feeling oddly cheerful. 

 

 

****

The reception was a smallish affair, but with music, dancing and an open bar, it was a party nonetheless. There had been much debate about that open bar, considering the presence of both Teddy and Fulvia, but they’d both insisted they didn’t want to be catered to.

“I told them, look, dears, I own a bloody bar.” Fulvia said to John, with a lemonade in her hand. “If I can’t tolerate the presence of alcohol without falling off the wagon, I’m in serious trouble!”

“So it’s going well?”

She nodded. “Teddy and I both got our 6-month chips last week. It helps, going to the meetings together.”

“Victor said you’ve been invaluable, looking out for Lily when he’s had to fly back to the states.”

Fulvia smiled, broadly. “I never had kids. Of course, Lily’s grown now, but even so…”

“…it’s never too late to protect a child.” John said, catching her eye meaningfully, taking them both back to her bar on that fateful night. They turned to watch Lily and Teddy on the dance floor, and John’s eyes drifted to a stunning woman who danced beside them -- dark hair, roman nose, dark eyes – partnered with an equally familiar-looking young man. “I know that woman!”

“Dancing with Jeremy?” Fulvia perked. “You mean Darcy? Oh, I very much doubt you know her, Doctor, not your ilk, I’m sure, poor girl’s had some rough times, but she’s tough, remarkably resourceful and quite lovely. Jeremy’s head over heels. It’s an odd match, but they seem to be making it work. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were to pop the question himself before too long.”

John smiled to himself, and watched her dance, a very different dance than her last in his presence. Good for her.

“Where’s your man, then?”

John turned. “Sherlock?”

“Dunno. Do you have more than one?” She teased.

He pinked. “Can hardly handle the one I’ve got,” He said, shyly, still getting used to the fact that the whole world knew he was in love with Sherlock Holmes, and that Sherlock Holmes was somehow, impossibly, in love with him. “Last I saw, he’d stepped out for a smoke.”

 

 

****

The two men stood outside on the balcony, winter coats over their formalwear.

“Fucking cold out here,” complained Victor. “At least the rain stopped.”

“The things we do for a cigarette,” replied Sherlock, prompting Victor to grin and reach into his coat pocket and remove two cellophane wrapped items. He tossed one to Sherlock.

Sherlock recoiled. “Oh, fuck no. I thought you’d gone off these.”

“I had. But come on, it’s a special occasion.” Victor cajoled. “Smoke with me, Rabbit.”

Sherlock exhaled and sighed. “If I vomit, I’m blaming you.”

“If you vomit, I’m blaming the scotch.”

The both removed the plastic wrap, and Victor lifted the cigar to his nose, inhaling the scent appreciatively before biting off the end and spitting it out.

“Lovely habit,” Sherlock said, slightly disgusted.

“Here, delicate Bunny, I’ll do yours.” Victor reached out to help.

“No.” Sherlock snatched the cigar away from Victor’s fingers. “I can do it, just give me a moment.” He turned away and carefully bit it, tasting the tobacco on his tongue. Instead of spitting out the end as Victor had done, he pocketed it. When Victor looked at him curiously, he explained his actions with a single word, saying somewhat sheepishly: “Ash.”

“Ah,” Victor nodded, remembering well the never-ending ash experiments of 2005, all 243 of them. He leaned over to light Sherlock’s cigar. “Well, here’s to #244, then.”

“You remembered the number?”

“I remembered the number.” Victor confirmed with a grin, and held out a flame to Sherlock’s cigar. Plumes of smoke were expelled into the air as the detective exhaled.

“Curious. Not as horrible as I expected, but on the whole, requires too much direct contact with the tobacco in its natural form. A bit like smoking a cabbage.”

“Good thing I didn’t pop for the Cubans.” Victor said, shaking his head.

Sherlock smiled at his friend, feeling the pull of their decades-long friendship. His finger slid across the top of something in his left coat pocket, and he cleared his throat. It was time.

“I have something for you.”

“Sherlock, I’m the _father_ of the bride, I don’t get presents.”

“Today you do.” Sherlock removed the item from his pocket, and held it out to Victor.

His hand rested on the top of it, and he closed his eyes, thrown by its presence. “I thought everything had been destroyed?”

“Everything else was.” Sherlock said, quietly. “I couldn’t bring myself to destroy it. It’s Melinda’s last moments, Victor. She was your friend. Lily loved her. I couldn’t burn it in the fire.”

Victor took the videotape in his hand, turning it over and over. “Who else knows about this?”

“Just me.” Sherlock admitted. “John thinks I destroyed it, but I didn’t have the heart.” He put his hands on Victor’s shoulders, keeping the cigar clear. “Look, this is dangerous, damning evidence, but its yours to keep or destroy. If you keep it, you must keep it locked away. Don’t even tell Lily about it until you’re absolutely sure she’s trustworthy, do you understand?”

Victor nodded, and clasped the tape tightly to his chest. His breath hitched. “I… loved her, you know.  Didn’t realize it until that day.”

“Of course you did, you arsehole” Sherlock said, pulling him close, forehead-to-forehead. “You wouldn’t have been able to pull the trigger, otherwise. Wouldn’t have willingly endangered your freedom, your safety. Of course you loved her.”

He let him go, and took the tape from his hand, gently placing it into Victor’s coat pocket. “I’m…truly sorry, Vic.”

The older man scrubbed his face with his hands, brushing away a discreet tear and nodded, resolved. “Thank you, Sherlock, for saving this. It’s worth more than I can say. I’ll keep it safe.”

Sherlock returned with a nod of his own. “What do you say we go get more scotch for me and more Jack for you and get the most out of this open bar?”

“I’m partially funding this open bar, after all,” Victor said, grabbing his friend by the neck. “So what the fuck, Bunny – let's go drink ourselves sober.”

 

 

****

 

“I’m just saying it’s an oxymoron to have two Best Men,” Sherlock said, perhaps a bit more intoxicated than he’d planned. “’Best’ means ‘excelling all others’, implies one singular man, implies unique in Best-ness. To have two means that neither is ‘best’, they can’t excel the other and therein lies the dilemma.”

“But what if it’s a tie?” Anton asked, looking spiff and sipping from a champagne flute. “What if you both ‘excel all others’ in precisely the same amount? Wouldn’t you both be ‘best’, then?”

Victor shook his head. “No, then they’d just both be really, really good.”

“And so we are,” John said, with a smile, arriving with fresh drinks.

“Two Best Men… Jumbo Shrimp…Virtual Reality!”

“God, is he back to two best men?” John asked Victor confidentially, eyebrow arched.

“Yep.” He grinned, and snagged an hors d’oerves from a passing tray.

“Don’t even try to debate,” John assured Anton. “He’s just mad because I got to carry the rings.”

And so they went on, into the night, more drinks and more jokes, until John led Sherlock into one of the darkened, deserted banquet rooms upstairs. Emboldened by alcohol, and heady from the compliments the pair of them had received, John pressed one hand to the front of Sherlock’s Armani trousers.

“Brash move, Captain Watson,” Sherlock said, looking down at his hand pointedly, and growled when John’s other hand proceeded to pull at the knot in Sherlock’s bow tie. “ _Surprisingly_ bold. You realize you’re going to have to do that up right before we go back downstairs.”

“Hmm, well considering my incompetence with bow ties,” John smirked, “We may be here all night.”

Sherlock backed him into an oval banquet table, pushing him down carelessly, with a smile. “I think I can live with that.”

The other man’s response was lost in a moan as Sherlock lowered John’s zip and pulled his pants and trousers down to just below the curve of his arse, quickly taking John’s cock between his lips and sucking, wet and hot, tongue pressing firm against him, perfect. Reflexively, John licked his own lips and resisted the urge to just close his eyes and enjoy -- because god, he loved to watch Sherlock suck him, loved to see his cock disappear into that genius mouth, push beyond those obscene lips and reach into that long…tempting…throat.

Thinking like that, poor bastard wouldn’t be able to last long, now would he?

Luckily, Sherlock had spent the better part of the last year calculating all the relevant points along the way to his partner’s typical orgasm, learning all the tell-tale signs that led to John’s utter wreckage, and as a result, Sherlock was now capable of pinpointing the man’s responses with laser precision. That’s how, on this particular night, Sherlock was able to take him to the very edge, to just the tip of his turning point, and choose just the right moment…to stop all together.

“What – why…Sherlock?” John stammered. “Please?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He shot him a predatory look, eyes shining in the dark, reflecting the streetlamps outside, gorgeous, dangerous, desire curling around John’s spine, and tightening inside. “Because if you want to cum, you _are_ going to have to earn it...”

 

 

****

The reception took place a mere six miles from Baker Street, but it took the taxi a full 45 minutes to return them home. By the time it had turned onto their street, both men’s ties were undone, their shirts were untucked, and John’s legs were shaking and weak.

“Fuck, I’m not sure if I can walk, Sherlock.” John grinned, face flushed. “Could we get out here and walk the rest of the way? I think I need to stretch before I take on stairs.”

Sherlock nodded, with a smile, and gave the driver a wink. With an extra twenty in her pocket, and a penchant for gay porn, this had been a fare she’d thoroughly enjoyed. With no small regret, she pulled over to let the boys out of the cab, but made sure to leave Sherlock her card: “ _Anytime_ you need a ride…”

John climbed out, joints stiff, and Sherlock followed, checking his zip as he did.

“ _That_ was…” John was once again at a loss for words. “How did you know?”

“How did I know what? That you wanted me to take you in the backseat of a taxi?” Sherlock shrugged, a hint of self-satisfaction shining through. “You think about it all the time. The week of Mel’s murder, on our way to Lily’s? That was the first time you thought about it.”

John stopped. “Stop it. You _cannot_ read minds, Sherlock.”

“You’re right, I can’t.” Sherlock said smugly. “Observation, John. Little tells. That day,  you looked at my hands on my thighs, and that look was immediately followed by a slight glazing of the eyes, a defocusing -- so, fantasy, likely sexual, considering the visible tightening of your trousers, likely with me at the centre, considering the look to my thighs. When I did eventually interrupt your train of thought, you shot a nervous look to the cabbie, read: "guilty”, read: “busted”. Filthy boy. Observation, John, nothing supernatural. It’s just what happens when you pay attention.”

John gathered Sherlock up in his arms then, and kissed him right there on the pavement, with all the passion he could muster, his hands on the sides of his face, his mouth hungry, his heart overwhelmed. Because this man, this singular, wonderful, infuriating genius found him worthy of attention, of observation, of devotion. One year out and he remembered a cab ride, one cab ride out of a thousand, in loving detail. John was besotted, flooded with feelings and while Sherlock would blame serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, John knew there was more to it than a flood of chemicals to the brain.

It was love.

“Careful, John,” Sherlock smiled, mock-horrified. “Out here on the street? People will talk.”

“I don’t care.” John said.

“You used to.” Sherlock took his hand, and they resumed walking. “In fact, I believe we put a pin in this discussion, a long time ago. You asked why I didn’t mind the name-calling, the ignorance, from people like Chad Wilson.”

John nodded. “I remember.”

“So you get it now?” Sherlock asked.

“I do.” John squeezed his hand. “Its because they don’t matter. All that matters is…us.”

“Precisely.” Sherlock said. “You and me and the people we love. Everyone else can go to hell.”

“I like that.” John smiled, and kissed him again. “And I love you.”

“I love you, too, John.” Sherlock pulled him in tighter, pausing near the steps that led to the flat, extending the kiss, prolonging it…until it came to a sudden and abrupt end, thanks to the unexpected sound of applause and the scent of American brand cigarettes. Sherlock and John pulled away and turned to the source of the sound and smoke.

“Victor Trevor.” Sherlock said, accusingly, and the man stood up from his spot on the steps.

“Took you long enough,” Victor complained. “Been out here for nearly an hour, it’s fucking cold. You guys alright? You look like you’ve been mugged…or something.” Victor smirked, knowingly.

They both ignored the implication.  “What are you doing here, Victor?” Sherlock asked. “Thought we said our goodbyes at the reception.”

“I know,” said Victor, joining them on the pavement. “But, as I was getting ready to go home, I realised I’d forgotten something.”

“Oh yeah? Something in the flat?” John reached for his keys, and looked towards the door.

Victor shot him a confident smile, and shook his head, slowly. “Nope.” He looked to Sherlock, who rubbed the back of his neck, arched his brow, and nodded approval.  That’s when Victor leaned in to John’s ear, slowly, his breath hot on his neck, and said “I ‘d almost forgotten to make good on my promise.”

John swallowed hard. “Which promise?”

Sherlock’s mouth suddenly appeared at the back of John’s neck, kissing and biting lightly, his hands tracing John’s shoulders and the backs of his arms. John closed his eyes…

“Don’t you remember, Johnny? One year ago?”

Victor moved in front of him, gripping the waistband of John’s trousers, his voice going low and dark in his ear, the whole thing forcing John to go dizzy, and his breathing to go positively ragged.

“I promised to make you cry…”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***END NOTE EXTRAS***
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- Victor’s Father of the Bride suit: [Preposterous, but brilliant!](http://robellionline.com/2577-large_default/mens-dark-purple-embossed-print-suit-italian-design-velvet-lapels-wedding-party.jpg)
> 
> \- [Lily’s wedding dress](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4WPHmQs-nA8/TbrnhMRwXXI/AAAAAAAAESM/U0ZfcoOf8pA/s1600/long-sleeved+wedding+dresses+.jpg) (Kate-inspired, of course).
> 
> \- [Rain on your wedding day](http://weddingtraditions.about.com/od/MarriageTraditions/a/A-Superstitious-Wedding.htm), in the Hindu tradition.
> 
> \- [How to Make Casein Glue](http://www.ehow.com/how_8452451_make-super-strong-permanent-glue.html)!
> 
> \- Thanks to beautifullyheeled, batik96 and grietahatkeinnetz on Tumblr for responding to my last minute ash emergency call for help! (Victor may have remembered, but I sure didn't!)
> 
> \- [The Biological Basis of Love](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biological_basis_of_love): Sherlock would certainly approve.
> 
>  
> 
> It’s been a little over a year since I started this story, and I want to thank you all for all the encouragement and kindness you’ve shown me, here on AO3, on my Tumblr page and in person at 221BCon! 
> 
> I started this story because I didn’t think I could write a novel-length anything, and have repeatedly stalled in my attempts to do so. YOU gave me the motivation I needed to keep going, and at close to 150,000 words, I finally hit novel-length and then some! Thank you so incredibly much for giving me the confidence to get over this lifelong hurdle!
> 
> More words are coming from me, never fear, both inside the RabbitVerse and outside of it, so please do stay tuned! I’ll send out the bat signal on my Tumblr next time something new is posted, so feel free to follow me there.
> 
> I love you all, and always will, my forever filthy darlings. 
> 
> Stay safe, and play hard.  
> <3  
> Vex.


End file.
